{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_29426/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_29426","id":"gutenberg_29426","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29426","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Other","Category: Religion/Spirituality","India -- Social life and customs","Missions -- India"],"text":"Produced by The Bookworm, Emmy and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber's Notes: vowels with macrons are shown by an equals sign\nbefore the vowel in brackets. [=a]\n\nBold is surrounded by =equal signs=.\n\nItalics are shown by _underscores_.]\n\n\n[Illustration: Old India. \"You think you know us; you know nothing at\nall about us!\" and the old eyes peer intently into yours, and the old\nhead shakes and he smiles to himself as he moves off. Every bit of this\npicture is suggestive: the closed door behind,--only a Brahman may open\nthat door; the mythological carving,--only a Brahman has the right to\nunderstand it; the three-skein cord,--only a Brahman may touch it. Even\nthe ragged old cloth is suggestive. In old India nothing but Caste\ncounts for anything, and a reigning Prince lately gave his weight in\ngold to the Brahmans, as part payment for ceremonies which enabled him\nto eat with men of this old man's social position. Look at the marks on\nthe baby's forehead; they are suggestive too.]\n\n\n\n\nTHINGS AS THEY ARE\n\nMISSION WORK IN SOUTHERN INDIA\n\nBY\n\nAMY WILSON-CARMICHAEL\n\n_Keswick Missionary C.E.Z.M.S._\n\nAUTHOR OF \"FROM SUNRISE LAND,\" ETC.\n\nWITH PREFACE BY\n\nEUGENE STOCK\n\n[Illustration: Tamil Text: VICTORY TO JESUS' NAME!]\n\n          LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT\n          (OFFICE OF \"=The Christian=\")\n          12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.\n          _And may be ordered of any bookseller_\n          1905\n\n          FIRST EDITION                       _April 1903_\n          _Reprinted_                        _August 1903_\n               \"                            _January 1904_\n               \"                           _November 1904_\n               \"                            _January 1905_\n\n\n              To the Memory of My Dear Friend,\n\n                        ELEANOR CARR,\n\n          Whose last message to the Band, before her\n              translation on June 16, 1901, was:\n\n          \"YOU WILL BE IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT\n               BY THE TIME THIS REACHES YOU,\n    [Illustration: Tamil text: THE BATTLE IS THE LORD'S!]\"\n\n\n\n\nNote\n\n\nWITHIN a few weeks of the publication of _Things as They Are_, letters\nwere received from missionaries working in different parts of India,\nconfirming its truth. But some in England doubt it. And so it was\nproposed that if a fourth edition were called for, a few confirmatory\nnotes, written by experienced South Indian missionaries, other than\nthose of the district described, would be helpful. Several such notes\nare appended. The Indian view of one of the chief facts set forth in the\nbook is expressed in the note written by one who, better than any\nmissionary, and surely better even than any onlooker at home, has the\nright to be heard in this matter--_and the right to be believed_.\n\nAnd now at His feet, who can use the least, we lay this book again; for\n\"to the Mighty One,\" as the Tamil proverb says, \"even the blade of grass\nis a weapon.\" May it be used for His Name's sake, to win more prayer for\nIndia--and all dark lands--the prayer that prevails.\n\n                                           AMY WILSON-CARMICHAEL,\n  Dohnavur, Tinnevelly District,\n  S. India.\n\n\nConfirmatory Notes\n\n\n_From_ Rev. D. DOWNIE, D.D., American Baptist Mission, Nizam's\nDominions, S. India.\n\nI have felt for many years that we missionaries were far too prone to\ndwell on what is called the \"bright side of mission work.\" That it has a\nbright side no one can question. That it has a \"dark\" side some do\nquestion; but I for one, after thirty years of experience, know it to be\njust as true as the bright side is true. I have heard Miss Carmichael's\nbook denounced as \"pessimistic.\" Just what is meant by that I am not\nquite sure; but if it means that what she has written is untrue, then I\nam prepared to say that it is NOT pessimistic, _for there is not a line\nof it that cannot be duplicated in this Telugu Mission_. That she has\npainted a dark picture of Hindu life cannot be denied, but, _since it is\nevery word true_, I rejoice that she had the courage to do what was so\nmuch needed, and yet what so many of us shrank from doing, \"lest it\nshould injure the cause.\"\n\n\n_From_ Rev. T. STEWART, M.A., Secretary, United Free Church Mission,\nMadras.\n\nThis book, _Things as They Are_, meets a real need--_it depicts a phase\nof mission work of which, as a rule, very little is heard_. Every\nmissionary can tell of cases where people have been won for Christ, and\nmention incidents of more than passing interest. Miss Carmichael is no\nexception, and could tell of not a few trophies of grace. _The danger\nis, lest in describing such incidents the impression should be given\nthat they represent the normal state of things, the reverse being the\ncase._ The people of India are not thirsting for the Gospel, nor\n\"calling us to deliver their land from error's chain.\" The night is\nstill one in which the \"spiritual hosts of wickedness\" have to be\novercome before the captive can be set free. The writer has laid all\ninterested in the extension of the Kingdom of God under a deep debt of\nobligation by such a graphic and accurate picture of the difficulties\nthat have to be faced and the obstacles to be overcome. Counterparts of\nthe incidents recorded can be found in other parts of South India, and\nthere are probably few missionaries engaged in vernacular work who could\nnot illustrate some of them from their own experience.\n\n\n_From_ Dr. A. W. RUDISILL, Methodist Episcopal Press, Madras.\n\nIn _Things as They Are_ are pictured, by camera and pen, _some_ things\nin Southern India. The pen, as faithfully as the camera, has told the\ntruth, and nothing but the truth.\n\nThe early chapters bring out with vivid, striking, almost startling\nreality the wayside hearers in India. One can almost see the devil\nplucking away the words as fast as they fall, and hear the opposers of\nthe Gospel crying out against it.\n\nPaul did not hesitate to write things as they were of the idolaters to\nwhom he preached, even though the picture was very dark. _It is all the\nmore needful now, when so many are deceived and being deceived as to the\ntrue nature of idolatry, that people at home who give and pray should be\ntold plainly that what Paul wrote of idolaters in Rome and Corinth is\nstill true of idolaters in India._\n\nMiss Carmichael has given only glances and glimpses, not full insights.\nLet those who think the picture she has drawn is too dark know that, if\nthe whole truth were told, an evil spirit only could produce the\npictures, and hell itself would be the only fit place in which to\npublish them, because in Christian lands eyes have not seen and ears\nhave not heard of such things.\n\n\n_From_ Rev. C. W. CLARKE, M.A., Principal, Noble College, Masulipatam.\n\nI have worked as Principal of a College for over seventeen years amongst\nthe caste people of South India, and I entirely endorse Miss\nCarmichael's views as to the actual risks run by students and others\ndesirous of breaking caste and being baptized. While the teaching of the\nBible and English education generally have removed a great deal of\nprejudice, and greatly raised the ethical standard amongst a number of\nthose who come under such influences, Hinduism as held and practised by\nthe vast majority of caste people remains essentially unchanged. To\nbreak caste is held to be the greatest evil a person can inflict upon\nhimself and his community, _therefore practically any means may be\nresorted to to prevent such a calamity_. It is a commonplace amongst\nmissionaries, that when a caste man or woman shows any serious intention\nof being baptized,--in any case, where caste feeling is not modified by\nspecial circumstances,--the most stringent precautions must be taken to\nprotect the inquirer from the schemes of his caste brethren.\n\n\n_From_ KRISHNA RAN, Esq., B.A., Editor, _Christian Patriot_, Madras\n(himself a convert).\n\nThe question is often asked whether a high caste Hindu convert can live\nwith his own people after his baptism. _It is only those who know\nnothing of the conditions of life in India, and of the power of caste as\nit exists in this country, who raise the question._\n\nThe convert has to be prepared for the loss of parents and their tender\naffection; of brothers and sisters, relatives and friends; of wife and\nchildren, if he has any; of his birthright, social position, means of\nlivelihood, reputation, and all the power which hides behind the magic\nword \"caste\"; of all that he is taught from his childhood to hold as\nsacred.\n\n\n_From_ Miss READE, South Arcot, South India.\n\nI am not surprised that anyone unacquainted with mission work in India\nshould be staggered at the facts narrated in _Things as They Are_. But\nas one who has worked for nearly thirty years in the heart of\nheathenism, away from the haunts of civilisation, I can bear testimony\n_that the reality of things far exceeds anything that it would be\npossible to put into print_. One's tongue falters to tell of what is\ncustom in this country. I know a case where a young girl of ten was\nplaced in such a position that her choice lay between two sinful courses\nof life, _no right way being open to her_. I think one of the most\ndistressing things we have to meet in caste work in this country is the\nfact that often as soon as a soul begins to show interest in Christ _he\nor she disappears_, and one either hears next that he is dead, or can\nget no reliable information at all.\n\n\n_Extract from_ a letter to Miss CARMICHAEL on _Things as They Are_. (The\nwriter is a veteran American missionary.)\n\n_I could duplicate nearly every incident in the book_; so I know it is a\ntrue picture, not alone because I believe your word, but because my\nexperience has been so similar to yours. Many times, while reading it,\nthe memory of the old heart-break has been so vivid that I have had to\nlay the book down and look round the familiar room in order to convince\nmyself that it was you, and not I, who was agonising over one of the\nKing's own children who was being crowded back into darkness and hurled\ndown to destruction, because Satan's wrath is great as he realises that\nhis time is short.\n\nI wish the book might be read by all the Christians in the homeland.\n\n\n_From_ PANDITA RAMABAI.\n\nWhile I was reading _Things as They Are_, I fancied I was living my old\nlife among Hindus over again. I can honestly corroborate everything said\nin regard to the religious and social life of the Hindus. I came from\nthat part of the country, and I am very glad that the book has succeeded\nin bringing the truth to light.\n\n\n_From_ Miss L. TROTTER.\n\nThere is hardly a phase of all the heart-suffering retold that we have\nnot known: page after page might have been written out here, word for\nword.\n\n\n\n\nPreface\n\n\nTHE writer of these thrilling chapters is a Keswick missionary, well\nknown to many friends as the adopted daughter of Mr. Robert Wilson, the\nmuch-respected chairman of the Keswick Convention. She worked for a time\nwith the Rev. Barclay Buxton in Japan; and for the last few years she\nhas been with the Rev. T. Walker (also a C.M.S. Missionary) in\nTinnevelly, and is on the staff of the Church of England Zenana Society.\n\nI do not think the realities of Hindu life have ever been portrayed with\ngreater vividness than in this book; and I know that the authoress's\naccuracy can be fully relied upon. The picture is drawn without\nprejudice, with all sympathy, with full recognition of what is good, and\nyet with an unswerving determination to tell the truth and let the facts\nbe known,--that is, so far as she dares to tell them. What she says is\nthe truth, and nothing but the truth; but it is not the whole\ntruth--_that_ she could not tell. If she wrote it, it could not be\nprinted. If it were printed, it could not be read. But if we read\nbetween the lines, we do just catch glimpses of what she calls \"the\nActual.\"\n\nIt is evident that the authoress deeply felt the responsibility of\nwriting such a book; and I too feel the responsibility of recommending\nit. I do so with the prayer of my heart that God will use it to move\nmany. It is not a book to be read with a lazy kind of sentimental\n\"interest.\" It is a book to send the reader to his knees--still more to\n_her_ knees.\n\nMost of the chapters are concerned with the lives of Heathen men and\nwomen and children surrounded by the tremendous bars and gates of the\nCaste system. But one chapter, and not the least important one, tells of\nnative Christians. It has long been one of my own objects to correct the\ncurious general impression among people at home that native Christians,\nas a body, are--not indeed perfect,--no one thinks that, but--earnest\nand consistent followers of Christ. Narratives, true narratives, of true\nconverts are read, and these are supposed to be specimens of the whole\nbody. But (1) where there have been \"mass movements\" towards\nChristianity, where whole villages have put themselves under Christian\ninstruction, mixed motives are certain; (2) where there have been two or\nthree generations of Christians it is unreasonable to expect the\ndescendants of men who may have been themselves most true converts to be\nnecessarily like them. Hereditary Christianity in India is much like\nhereditary Christianity at home. The Church in Tinnevelly, of which this\nbook incidentally tells a little, is marked by both these features.\nWhole families or even villages have \"come over\" at times; and the large\nmajority of the Christians were (so to speak) born Christians, and were\nbaptized in infancy. This is not in itself a result to be despised.\n\"Christian England,\" unchristian as a great part of its population\nreally is, is better than Heathen India; and in the chapter now referred\nto, Miss Carmichael herself notices the difference between a Hindu and a\nChristian village. But the more widely Christianity spreads, the more\nwill there assuredly be of mere nominal profession.\n\nIs the incorrect impression I allude to caused by missionaries dwelling\nmostly on the brighter side of their work? Here and there in the book\nthere is just a suggestion that they are wrong in doing so. But how can\nthey help it? What does a clergyman or an evangelist in England tell of?\nDoes he tell of his many daily disappointments, or of his occasional\nencouraging cases? The latter are the events of his life, and he\nnaturally tells of them. The former he comprises in some general\nstatement. How can he do otherwise? And what can the modern missionary\ndo in the short reports he is able to write? Fifty years ago missionary\njournals of immense length came home, and were duly published; and then\nthe details of Hindu idolatry and cruelty and impurity, and the\ntremendous obstacles to the Gospel, were better known by the few regular\nreaders. Much that Miss Carmichael tells was then told over and over\nagain, though not perhaps with a skilful pen like hers. But the work has\nso greatly developed in each mission, and the missions are so far more\nnumerous and extended, that neither can missionaries now write as their\npredecessors did, nor, if they did, could all the missionary periodicals\ntogether find space for their journals.\n\nThe fault of incorrect impressions lies mainly in the want of knowledge\nand want of thought of home speakers and preachers. I remember, thirty\nyears ago, an eloquent Bishop in Exeter Hall triumphantly flinging in\nthe face of critics of missions the question, \"Is Tinnevelly a\nfiction?\"--as if Tinnevelly had become a Christian country, which\napparently some people still suppose it to be, notwithstanding the\nwarning words to the contrary which the C.M.S. publications have again\nand again uttered. Even now, there are in Tinnevelly about twenty\nheathen to every one Christian; and of what sort the twenty are this\nbook tells. Tinnevelly is indeed \"no fiction,\" but in a very different\nsense from that of the good Bishop's speech. Again, a few months ago, I\nheard a preacher, not very favourable to the C.M.S., say that the\nC.M.S., despite its shortcomings, deserved well of the Church because it\nhad \"converted a nation\" in Uganda!--as if the nation comprised only\n30,000 souls. Some day the \"Actual\" of Uganda will be better understood,\nand the inevitable shortcomings of even its Christian population\nrealised, and then we shall be told that we deceived the\npublic--although we have warned them over and over again.\n\nBut the larger part of this book is a revelation--so far as is\npossible--of the \"Actual\" of Hinduism and Caste. God grant that its\nterrible facts and its burning words may sink into the hearts of its\nreaders! Perhaps, when they have read it, they will at last agree that\nwe have used no sensational and exaggerated language when we have said\nthat the Church is only playing at missions! Service, and self-denial,\nand prayer, must be on a different scale indeed if we are ever--I do not\nsay to convert the world--but even to evangelise it.\n\n                                                      EUGENE STOCK.\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\n            CHAPTER                                  PAGE\n                 I. ABOUT THE BOOK                      1\n                II. THREE AFTERNOONS OFF THE TRACK      5\n               III. HUMDRUM                            18\n                IV. CORRESPONDENCES                    26\n                 V. THE PREY OF THE TERRIBLE           33\n                VI. MISSED ENDS                        41\n               VII. \"THE DUST OF THE ACTUAL\"           57\n              VIII. ROOTS                              71\n                IX. THE CLASSES AND THE MASSES         83\n                 X. THE CREED CHASM                    91\n                XI. CASTE VIEWED AS A DOER             96\n               XII. PETRA                             105\n              XIII. DEATH BY DISUSE                   111\n               XIV. WHAT HAPPENED                     118\n                XV. \"SIMPLY MURDERED\"                 124\n               XVI. WANTED, VOLUNTEERS                132\n              XVII. IF IT IS SO VERY IMPORTANT. . . ? 141\n             XVIII. THE CALL INTENSIFIED              145\n               XIX. \"ATTRACTED BY THE INFLUENCE\"      160\n                XX. THE ELF                           171\n               XXI. DEIFIED DEVILRY                   188\n              XXII. BEHIND THE DOOR                   194\n             XXIII. \"PAN, PAN IS DEAD\"                203\n              XXIV. \"MARRIED TO THE GOD\"              217\n               XXV. SKIRTING THE ABYSS                223\n              XXVI. FROM A HINDU POINT OF VIEW        236\n             XXVII. THOUGH YE KNOW HIM NOT            249\n            XXVIII. HOW LONG?                         256\n              XXIX.  WHAT DO WE COUNT THEM WORTH?     262\n               XXX. TWO SAFE                          273\n              XXXI. THREE OBJECTIONS                  277\n             XXXII. \"SHOW ME THY GLORY!\"              289\n                    APPENDIX. SOME INDIAN SAINTS      303\n\n\n\n\n          Illustrations\n\n\n            AN OLD BRAHMAN                  _Frontispiece_\n            BANDY CROSSING A POOL          _Facing page 5_\n            A YOUNG TAMIL GIRL                         11\n            A POTTER AT HIS WHEEL                      24\n            A DEVOTEE OF SIVA                          26\n            THE RED LAKE VILLAGE                       28\n            DEATH SCENE                                51\n            WAILING                                    53\n            THREE CEREMONIAL MOURNERS                  54\n            CEREMONIAL BATHING                         56\n            AN ANCIENT PARIAH                          58\n            VELLALA WIDOW                              66\n            TYPICAL OLD WIDOW                          73\n            HINDU SCHOOLMASTER AND BOYS                87\n            SHANAR MOTHER AND CHILD                    91\n            COOKING IN A SHANAR HOUSE                  98\n            FAIRLY TYPICAL VELLALAR                   105\n            CHRISTIAN WIDOW                           112\n            BRAHMAN GIRL                              118\n            THREE TYPES OF BRAHMANHOOD--\n                  KEEN                                132\n                  THOUGHTFUL                          134\n                  DULL                                138\n            AN OLD WOMAN AND BABY                     143\n            BRAHMAN WIDOW                             145\n            BRAHMAN STREET                            147\n            SHEPHERD-CASTE HOUSE                      151\n            VELLALA CHILD                             161\n            \"UGLY DUCKLING\"                           178\n            DESIGNS IN CHALK                          194\n            HANDMARKS ON THE DOOR                     202\n            A \"HOLY BRAHMAN\"                          221\n            WOMAN AND WATER-VESSEL                    262\n\n\n\n\n          Glossary\n\n\n  AGNI         God of Fire.\n\n  AIYO         Alas! \"Ai\" runs together almost like \"eye.\" The word is\n                 repeated rapidly, Eye-eye Y[=o] Eye-eye Y[=o]!\n\n  AMM[=A]      Mother! (vocative case). \"A\" is pronounced like \"u\" in\n                \"up.\" The word is also used by all women in speaking\n                to each other, and by girls in speaking to women.\n\n  AMM[=A]L     Lady or woman. \"A\" is pronounced like \"u\" in \"up.\"\n\n  ANNA         One penny.\n\n  ARECA NUT    Nut \"eaten\" by the Indians with betel leaf or lime.\n\n\n  BETEL        Leaf of a creeper.\n\n  BANDY        A bullock cart.\n\n  BRAHMA       The first person in the Hindu Triad, regarded as the\n                 Creator.\n\n  BRAHMAN      The highest of the Hindu Castes.\n\n  BRAMO SAM\u00c2J  A sect of Hindu reformers who honour Christ as a man,\n                 but reject Him as a Saviour.\n\n\n  CHEE!        Exclamation of derision, disgust, or remonstrance.\n\n  COMPOUND     A piece of ground surrounding a house.\n\n  COOLIE       A paid labourer. \"Coolie\" is the Tamil word for pay.\n\n  CURRY        A preparation of meat or vegetables made by grinding\n                 various condiments and mixing them together.\n\n\n  FAKEER       Religious beggar.\n\n\n  GURU         A religious teacher.\n\n\n  IYER         Title given to Brahmans and Gurus.\n\n\n  PADDY        Rice in the husk. Paddy fields = rice fields.\n\n  PARIAH       A depressed class.\n\n  P[=U]JAH     Worship. \"[=u]\" is pronounced like \"oo.\"\n\n\n  RUPEE        Value 1s. 4d.\n\n\n  SAIVITE      A worshipper of Siva.\n\n  SALAAM       A salutation meaning \"peace,\" used in greeting and\n                 farewell, and often in the sense of \"thank you.\"\n                 The right hand is raised to the forehead as one says\n                 salaam.\n\n  SEELEY       Tamil woman's dress of silk, muslin, or cotton.\n\n  SHANAR       A Caste of Palmyra-palm climbers.\n\n  SIVA         The third person in the Hindu Triad. The Destroyer.\n\n\n  TOM-TOM      An Indian drum.\n\n\n  VAISHNAVITE  A worshipper of Vishnu.\n\n  VELLALAR     A Caste of landowners and cultivators.\n\n  VISHNU       The second person in the Hindu Triad. The Preserver.\n\n\n\n\nTHINGS AS THEY ARE\n\nMISSION WORK IN SOUTHERN INDIA\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nAbout the Book\n\n\n          \"We can do nothing against the Truth, but for the\n          Truth.\"\n                               _St. Paul, Asia and Europe._\n\n          \"There is too little desire to know what is the\n          actual state of mission work in India, and a\n          regard to the showy and attractive rather than to\n          the solid and practical. I will try, however, to\n          avoid being carried away by the tide, and to set\n          myself the task of giving as plain and unvarnished\n          a statement as possible of what is actually being\n          done or not done in the great field of our foreign\n          labour.\"\n                          _Bishop French, India and Arabia._\n\n\nTHREE friends sat Native fashion on the floor of an Indian verandah. Two\nof the three had come out to India for a few months to see the fight as\nit is. And they saw it. They now proposed that the third should gather\nsome letters written from the hot heart of things, and make them into a\nbook, to the intent that others should see exactly what they had seen.\nThe third was not sure. The world has many books. Does it want another,\nand especially another of the kind this one would be? Brain and time\nare needed for all that writing a book means. The third has not much of\neither. But the two undertook to do all the most burdensome part of the\nbusiness. \"Give us the letters, we will make the book,\" and they urged\nreasons which ended in--this.\n\nThis, the book, has tried to tell the Truth. That is all it has to say\nabout itself. The quotations which head the chapters, and which are\nmeant to be read, not skipped, are more worthful than anything else in\nit. They are chosen from the writings of missionaries, who saw the Truth\nand who told it.\n\nThe story covers about two years. We had come from the eastern side of\nthis South Indian district, to work for awhile in the south of the\nSouth, the farthest southern outpost of the C.M.S. in India. Chapter II.\nplunges into the middle of the beginning. The Band Sisters are the\nmembers of a small Women's Itinerating Band; the girls mentioned by\ntranslated names are the young convert-girls who are with us; the Iyer\nis Rev. T. Walker; the Ammal is Mrs. Walker; the Missie Ammal explains\nitself.\n\nThe Picture-catching Missie Ammal is the friend who proposed the book's\nmaking. This is her Tamil name, given because it describes her as she\nstruck the Tamil mind. The pictures she caught were not easy to catch.\nReserved and conservative India considered the camera intrusive, and we\nwere often foiled in getting what we most desired. Even where we were\nallowed to catch our object peaceably, it was a case of working under\ndifficulties which would have daunted a less ardent picture-catcher.\nWherever the camera was set up, there swarms of children sprang into\nbeing, burrowed in and out like rabbits, and scuttled about over\neverything, to the confusion of the poor artist, who had to fix focus\nand look after the safety of her camera legs at the same time, while the\nsecond Missie Ammal held an umbrella over her head, and the third\nexhorted the picture, which speedily got restive, to sit still. So much\nfor the mere mechanical.\n\nFinally, I should explain the book's character. \"Tell about things as\nthey actually are\"; so said the Two with emphasis. I tried, but the\nActual eluded me. It was as if one painted smoke, and then, pointing to\nthe feeble blur, said, \"Look at the battle! 'the smoking hell of\nbattle!' There is the smoke!\" The Poet's thought was not this, I know,\nwhen she coined that suggestive phrase, \"The Dust of the Actual,\" but it\nhas been the predominating thought in my mind, for it holds that which\ndefines the scope and expresses the purpose of the book, and I use it as\nthe title of one of the chapters. It does not show the Actual.\nPrincipalities, Powers, Rulers of the Darkness, Potentialities unknown\nand unimagined, gathered up into one stupendous Force--we have never\nseen it. How can we describe it? What we have seen and tried to describe\nis only an indication of Something undescribed, and is as nothing in\ncomparison with it--as Dust in comparison with the Actual. The book's\nscope, then, is bounded by this: it only touches the Dust; but its\npurpose goes deeper, stretches wider, has to do with the Actual and our\nrelation to it.\n\nBut in touching the Dust we touch the outworkings of an Energy so awful\nin operation that descriptive chapters are awful too. And such chapters\nare best read alone in some quiet place with God. For the book is a\nbattle-book, written from a battle-field where the fighting is not\npretty play but stern reality; and almost every page looks straight from\nthe place where Charles Kingsley stood when he wrote--\n\n          \"God! fight we not within a curs\u00e8d world,\n           Whose very air teems thick with leagu\u00e8d fiends--\n           Each word we speak has infinite effects--\n           Each soul we pass must go to heaven or hell--\n           And this our one chance through eternity\n           To drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake!\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\n           Be earnest, earnest, earnest; mad if thou wilt:\n           Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven,\n           And that thy last deed ere the judgment day.\"\n\n[Illustration: This is our bullock-bandy. The water was up to the top of\nthe bank when we crossed last. The palms are cocoanuts.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nThree Afternoons off the Track\n\n          \"They are led captive by Satan at his will in the\n          most quiescent manner.\"\n                             _David Brainerd, North America._\n\n          \"Oh that the Lord would pour out upon them a\n          spirit of deep concern for their souls!\"\n                                   _Henry Martyn, India._\n\n          \"I ask you earnestly to pray that the Gospel may\n          take saving and working effect.\"\n                                 _James Gilmour, Mongolia._\n\n\nTHE Western Ghauts sweep down to the sea in curves. Dohnavur is in one\nof the last of these curves. There are no proper roads running under the\nmountains, only rough country ruts crossing the plain. We were rolling\nalong one of these at the rate of two miles an hour.\n\nCrash and tumble went the bandy, a springless construction with a mat\nroof; bang over stones and slabs of rock, down on one side, up on the\nother; then both wheels were sharp aslant. But this is usual. On that\nparticular First Afternoon the water was out, which is the South Indian\nway of saying that the tanks, great lake-like reservoirs, have\noverflowed and flooded the land. Once we went smoothly down a bank and\ninto a shallow swollen pool, and the water swished in at the lower end\nand floated our books out quietly. So we had to stop, and fish them up;\nand then, huddled close at the upper end we sat, somewhat damp, but\nhappy.\n\nAt last we got to our destination, reached through a lane which then was\na stream with quite a swift little current of its own. Cupid's Lake the\nplace is called. We thought the name appropriate. Cupid's Lake is\npeopled by Castes of various persuasions; we made for the Robber quarter\nfirst. The Robber Caste is honourable here; it furnishes our watchmen\nand the coolies who carry our money. There is good stuff in the Robber\nCaste people: a valiant people are they, and though they were not\nprepared for the thing that was coming towards them, they met it with\nfortitude. A little girl saw it first. One glance at my hat through the\nend of the cart, and she flew to spread the news--\n\n\"Oh! everyone come running and see! A great white man is here! Oh what\nan appalling spectacle! A great white man!\"\n\nThen there was a general rush; children seemed to spring from the\nground, all eyes and tongues and astonishment. \"She isn't a man!\" \"He\nis!\" \"She isn't!\" \"He has got a man's turban!\" \"But look at her seeley!\"\n(Tamil dress.) A _woman_, and white--it staggered them till the\nassurances of the Band Sisters prevailed; and they let me into a\nneighbouring house, out of the sun which made that hat a necessity. Once\nit was off they lost all fear, and crowded round in the friendliest\nfashion; but later, one of the Band was amused by hearing me described\nin full: \"Not a man, though great and white, and wearing a white man's\nturban, too! Was it not an appalling spectacle?\" And the old body who\nwas addressed held up both her hands amazed, and hastened off to\ninvestigate.\n\nAn English magazine told us lately exactly what these poor women think\nwhen they see, for the first time in their lives, the lady missionary.\nThey greatly admire her, the article said, and consider her fairer and\nmore divine than anything ever imagined before--which is very nice\nindeed to read; but here what they say is this: \"Was it not an appalling\nspectacle? A great white man!\"\n\nAnd now that the spectacle was safe in the house, the instincts of\nhospitality urged clean mats and betel. Betel (pronounced _beetle_) is\nthe leaf of a climbing plant, into which they roll a morsel of areca nut\nand lime. The whole is made up into a parcel and munched, but not\nswallowed. This does not sound elegant; neither is the thing. It is one\nof the minor trials of life to have to sit through the process.\n\nWe took a leaf or two, but explained that it was not our custom to eat\nit; and then we answered questions straight off for ten minutes. \"What\nis your Caste?\" \"Chee!\" in a tone of remonstrance, \"don't you see she is\n_white_? Married or widow? Why no jewels? What relations? Where are they\nall? Why have you left them and come here? Whatever can be your business\nhere? What does the Government give you for coming here?\" These last\nquestions gave us the chance we were watching for, and we began to\nexplain.\n\nNow what do these people do when, for the first time, they hear the Good\nTidings? They simply stare.\n\nIn that house that day there was an old woman who seemed to understand\na little what it was all about. She had probably heard before. But\nnobody else understood in the least; they did not understand enough to\nmake remarks. They sat round us on the floor and ate betel, as everybody\ndoes here in all leisure moments, and they stared.\n\nThe one old woman who seemed to understand followed us out of the house,\nand remarked that it was a good religion but a mistaken one, as it\nadvocated, or resulted in, the destruction of Caste.\n\nIn the next house we found several girls, and tried to persuade the\nmothers to let them learn to read. If a girl is learning regularly it\ngives one a sort of right of entrance to the house. One's going there is\nnot so much observed and one gets good chances, but to all our\npersuasions they only said it was not their custom to allow their girls\nto learn. Had _they_ to do Government work? Learning was for men who\nwanted to do Government work. We explained a little, and mentioned the\nmany villages where girls are learning to read. They thought it a wholly\nridiculous idea. Then we told them as much as we could in an hour about\nthe great love of Jesus Christ.\n\nI was in the middle of it, and thinking only of it and their souls, when\nan old lady with fluffy white hair leaned forward and gazed at me with a\nbeautiful, earnest gaze. She did not speak; she just listened and gazed,\n\"drinking it all in.\" And then she raised a skeleton claw, and grabbed\nher hair, and pointed to mine. \"Are you a widow too,\" she asked, \"that\nyou have no oil on yours?\" After a few such experiences that beautiful\ngaze loses its charm. It really means nothing more nor less than the\nsweet expression sometimes observed in the eyes of a sorrowful animal.\n\nBut her question had set the ball rolling again. \"Oil! no oil! Can't you\neven afford a halfpenny a month to buy good oil? It isn't your custom?\nWhy not? Don't any white Ammals ever use oil? What sort of oil do the\ngirls use? Do you _never_ use castor oil for the hair? Oh, castor oil is\nexcellent!\" And they went into many details. The first thing they do\nwhen a baby is born is to swing it head downwards, holding its feet, and\nadvise it not to sin; and the second thing is to feed it with castor\noil, and put castor oil in its eyes. \"Do we do none of these things?\" We\nsang to them. They always like that, and sometimes it touches them: but\nthe Tamils are not easily touched, and could never be described as\nunduly emotional.\n\nAll through there were constant and various interruptions. Two bulls\nsauntered in through the open door, and established themselves in their\naccustomed places; then a cow followed, and somebody went off to tie the\nanimals up. Children came in and wanted attention, babies made their\nusual noises. We rarely had five consecutive quiet minutes.\n\nWhen they seemed to be getting tired of us, we said the time was\npassing, to which they agreed, and, with a word about hoping to come\nagain, to which they answered cordially, \"Oh yes! Come to-morrow!\" we\nwent out into the street, and finished up in the open air. There is a\ntree at one end of the village; we stood under it and sang a chorus and\ntaught the children who had followed us from house to house to sing it,\nand this attracted some passing grown-ups, who listened while we\nwitnessed unto Jesus, Who had saved us and given us His joy. Nothing\ntells more than just this simple witness. To hear one of their own\npeople saying, with evident sincerity, \"One thing I know, that whereas I\nwas blind now I see,\" makes them look at each other and nod their heads\nsympathetically. This is something that appeals, something they can\nappreciate; many a time it arrests attention when nothing else would.\n\n[Illustration: We were not able to get the photo of that special girl\nin the blue seeley, but this girl is so like her that I put her here.\nShe is a Vellalar. The jewels worn by a girl of this class run into\nthousands of rupees. They are part of the ordinary dress. This girl did\nnot know we were coming, she was \"caught\" just as she was. She had a\nball of pink oleander flowers in her hands and white flowers in her\nhair.]\n\nWe were thoroughly tired by this time, and could neither talk nor sing\nany more. The crowd melted--all but the children, who never melt--one by\none going their respective ways, having heard, some of them, for the\nfirst time. What difference will it make in their lives? Did they\nunderstand it? None of them seemed specially interested, none of them\nsaid anything interesting. The last question I heard was about\nsoap--\"What sort of soap do you use to make your skin white?\" Most of\nthem would far prefer to be told that secret than how to get a white\nheart.\n\nAfternoon Number Two found us in the Village of the Temple, a\ntumble-down little place, but a very citadel of pride and the arrogance\nof ignorance. We did not know that at first, of course, but we very soon\nfound it out. There was the usual skirmish at the sight of a live white\nwoman; no one there had seen such a curiosity. But even curiosity could\nnot draw the Brahmans. They live in a single straggling street, and\nwould not let us in. \"Go!\" said a fat old Brahman disdainfully; \"no\nwhite man has ever trodden our street, and no white woman shall. As for\nthat low-caste child with you\"--Victory looked up in her gentle way, and\nhe varied it to--\"that child who eats with those low-caste people--she\nshall not speak to one of our women. Go by the way you have come!\"\n\nThis was not encouraging. We salaamed and departed, and went to our\nbandy left outside (\"low-caste bandies\" are not allowed to drive down\nBrahman streets), and asked our Master to open another door. While we\nwere waiting, a tall, fine-looking Hindu came and said, \"Will you come\nto my house? I will show you the way.\" So we went.\n\nHe led us to the Vellala quarter next to the Brahmans, and we found his\nhouse was the great house of the place. The outer door opened into a\nlarge square inner courtyard. A wide verandah, supported by pillars\nquaintly carved, ran round it. The women's rooms, low and windowless,\nopened on either side; these are the rooms we rejoice to get into, and\nnow we were led right in.\n\nBut first I had to talk to the men. They were regular Caste Hindus;\ncourteous--for they have had no cause to fear the power of the\nGospel--yet keen and argumentative. One of them had evidently read a\ngood deal. He quoted from their classics; knew all about Mrs. Besant and\nthe latest pervert to her views; and was up in the bewildering tangle of\nthought known as Hindu Philosophy. \"Fog-wreaths of doubt, in blinding\neddies drifted\"--that is what it really is, but it is very difficult to\nprove it so.\n\nOne truth struck him especially--Christianity is the only religion which\nprovides a way by which there is deliverance from sin _now_. There is a\ncertain system of philosophy which professes to provide deliverance in\nthe future, when the soul, having passed through the first three stages\nof bliss, loses its identity and becomes absorbed in God; but there is\nno way by which deliverance can be obtained here and now. \"Sin shall not\nhave dominion over you\"--there is no such line as this in all the\nmillion stanzas of the Hindu classics. He admitted this freely, admitted\nthat this one tenet marked out Christianity as a unique religion; but he\ndid not go on further; he showed no desire to prove the truth of it.\n\nAfter this they let us go to the women, who had all this time been\nwatching us, and discussing us with interest.\n\nOnce safely into their inner room, we sat down on the floor in the midst\nof them, and began to make friends. There was a grandmother who had\nheard that white people were not white all over, but piebald, so to\nspeak; might she examine me? There were several matronly women who\nwanted to know what arrangements English parents made concerning their\ndaughters' marriages. There were the usual widows of a large Indian\nhousehold--one always looks at them with a special longing; and there\nwas a dear young girl, in a soft blue seeley (Tamil dress), her ears\nclustered about with pearls, and her neck laden with five or six\nnecklets worth some hundreds of rupees. She was going to be married; and\nbeyond the usual gentle courtesy of a well-brought-up Tamil girl,\nshowed no interest in us. Almost all the women had questions to ask. On\nthe track it is different; they have already satisfied their lawful\ncuriosity concerning Missie Ammals; but here they have not had the\nchance; and if we ignore their desires, we defeat our own. They may seem\nto listen, but they are really occupied in wondering about us. We got\nthem to listen finally, and left them, cheered by warm invitations to\nreturn.\n\nThen we thought of the poor proud Brahmans, and hoping that, perhaps, in\nthe interval they had inquired about us, and would let us in, we went to\nthem again. We could see the fair faces and slender forms of the younger\nBrahman women standing in the shadow behind their verandah pillars, and\nsome of them looked as if they would like to let us in, but the street\nhad not relented; and a Brahman street is like a house--you cannot go in\nunless you are allowed.\n\nThere was one kind-faced, courtly old man, and he seemed to sympathise\nwith us, for he left the mocking group of men, and came to see us off;\nand then, as if to divert us from the greater topic, he pointed to one\nof the mountains, a spur of the God King's mountain, famous in all South\nIndia, and volunteered to tell me its story. We were glad to make\nfriends with him even over so small a thing as a mountain; but he would\nspeak of nothing else, and when he left us we felt baffled and sorry,\nand tired with the tiredness that comes when you cannot give your\nmessage; and we sat down on a rock outside the Brahman street, to wait\ntill the Band Sisters gathered for the homeward walk.\n\nIt was sunset time, and the sky was overcast by dull grey clouds; but\njust over the Brahman quarter there was a rift in the grey, and the\npent-up gold shone through. It seemed as if God were pouring out His\nbeauty upon those Brahmans, trying to make them look up, and they would\nnot. One by one we saw them go to their different courtyards, where the\ngolden glow could not reach them, and we heard them shut their great\nheavy doors, as if they were shutting Him out.\n\nIn there it was dark; out here, out with God, it was light. The\nafter-glow, that loveliest glow of the East, was shining through the\nrent of the clouds, and the red-tiled roofs and the scarlet flowers of\nthe Flame of the Forest, and every tint and colour which would respond\nin any way, were aglow with the beauty of it. The Brahman quarter was\nset in the deep green of shadowy trees; just behind it the mountains\nrose outlined in mist, and out of the mist a waterfall gleamed white\nagainst blue.\n\nWe spent Afternoon Number Three in the Village of the Warrior, a lonely\nlittle place, left all by itself on a great rough moorland--if you can\ncall a patch of bare land \"moor\" which is destitute of heather, and\ngrows palms and scrub in clumps instead. It took us rather a long time\nto get to it, over very broken ground on a very hot day; but when we did\nget there we found such a good opening that we forgot about our\nfeelings, and entered in rejoicing. There were some little children\nplaying at the entrance to the village, and they led us straight to\ntheir own house, making friends in the most charming way as they\ntrotted along beside us. They told us their family history, and we told\nthem as much of ours as was necessary, and they introduced us to their\nmothers as old acquaintances. The mothers were indulgent, and let us\nhave a room all to ourselves in the inner courtyard, where a dozen or\nmore children gathered and listened with refreshing zest. _They_\nunderstood, dear little things, though so often their elders did not.\n\nThen the mothers got interested, and sat about the door. The girls were\nwith me. (We usually divide into two parties; the elder and more\nexperienced Sisters go off in one direction, and the young convert-girls\ncome with me.) And before long, Jewel of Victory was telling out of a\nfull heart all about the great things God had done for her. She has a\nvery sweet way with the women, and they listened fascinated. Then the\nothers spoke, and still those women listened. They were more intelligent\nthan our audience of yesterday; and though they did not follow nearly\nall, they listened splendidly to the story-part of our message. In the\nmeaning, as is often the case, their interest was simply nil.\n\nBut we were sorry, and I think so were they, when a commotion outside\ndisturbed us, and we were sorrier when we knew the cause. The village\npostman, who only visits these out-of-the-way places once a week, had\nappeared with a letter for the head of the house. One of the men folk\nhad read it. It told of the death of the son in foreign parts--Madras, I\nthink--and the poor old mother's one desire was to see us out of the\nroom. She had not liked to turn us out; but, as the news spread, more\nwomen gathered clamouring round the door; and the moment we left the\nroom empty, in they rushed, with the mother and the women who had\nlistened to us, and flinging themselves on the floor, cried the Tamil\ncry of sorrow, full of a pathos of its own: \"Ai-y[=o]! Ai-y[=o]!\nAi-Ai-y[=o]!\"\n\nIt was sad to leave them crying so, but at that moment we were certainly\nbetter away. The children came with us to the well outside the village,\nand we sat on its wall and went on with our talk. They would hardly let\nus go, and begged us to come back and \"teach them every day,\" not the\nGospel--do not imagine their little hearts craved for that--but reading\nand writing and sums! As we drove off some of the villagers smiled and\nsalaamed, and the little children's last words followed us as far as we\ncould hear them: \"Come back soon!\"\n\nSometimes, as now, when we come to a new place, we dream a dream, dream\nthat perhaps at last it may be possible to win souls peacefully. Perhaps\nthese courteous, kindly people will welcome the message we bring them\nwhen they understand it better. Perhaps homes need not be broken up,\nperhaps whole families will believe, or individual members believing may\nstill live in their own homes and witness there. Perhaps--perhaps--! And\nsnatches of verse float through our dream--\n\n          \"Oh, might some sweet song Thy lips have taught us,\n                    Some glad song, and sweet,\n           Guide amidst the mist, and through the darkness,\n                    Lost ones to Thy feet!\"\n\nIt sounds so beautiful, so easy, singing souls to Jesus. And we dream\nour dream.\n\nTill suddenly and with violence we are awakened. Someone--a mere girl,\nor a lad, or even a little child--has believed, has confessed, wants to\nbe a Christian. And the whole Caste is roused, and the whole countryside\njoins with the Caste; and the people we almost thought loved us, hate\nus. And till we go to the next new place we never dream that dream\nagain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nHumdrum\n\n          \"A missionary's life is more ordinary than is\n          supposed. Plod rather than cleverness is often the\n          best missionary equipment.\"\n                           _Rev. J. Heywood Horsburgh, China._\n\n          \"Truly to understand the facts of work for Christ\n          in any land, we must strip it of all romance, and\n          of everything which is unreal.\"\n                                  _Miss S. S. Hewlett, India._\n\n\nTHERE have been times of late when I have had to hold on to one text\nwith all my might: \"It is required in stewards that a man be found\n_faithful_.\" Praise God, it does not say \"successful.\"\n\nOne evening things came to a climax. We all spent a whole afternoon\nwithout getting one good listener. We separated as usual, going two and\ntwo to the different quarters of a big sleepy straggly village. Life and\nI went to the potters. Life spoke most earnestly and well to an\nuninterested group of women. After she had finished one of them pointed\nto my hat (the only foreign thing about me which was visible--oh that I\ncould dispense with it!). \"What is that?\" she said. Not one bit did they\ncare to hear. One by one they went back to their work, and we were left\nalone.\n\nWe went to another quarter. It was just the same. At a rest-house by the\nway I noticed a Brahman, and went to see if he would listen. He would if\nI would talk \"about politics or education, but not if it was about\nreligion.\" However, I did get a chance of pleading with him to consider\nthe question of his soul's salvation, and he took a book and said he\nwould read it at his leisure. And then he asked me how many persons I\nhad succeeded in joining to my Way since I began to try. It was exactly\nthe question, only asked in another form, which the devil had been\npressing on me all the afternoon. After this he told me politely that we\nwere knocking our heads against a rock; we might smash our heads, but we\nnever would affect the rock.\n\n\"Rock! Rock! when wilt thou open?\" It is an old cry; I cried it afresh.\nBut the Brahman only smiled, and then with a gesture expressing at once\nhis sense of his own condescension in speaking with me, and his utter\ncontempt for the faith I held, motioned to me to go.\n\nOutside in the road a number of Hindus were standing; some of them were\nhis retainers and friends. I heard them say, as I passed through their\nmidst, \"Who will fall into the pit of the Christian Way!\" And they\nlaughed, and the Brahman laughed. \"As the filth of the world, the\noffscouring of all things, unto this day.\"\n\nWe walked along the road bordered with beautiful banyan trees. We sat\ndown under their shade, and waited for what would come. Some little\nchildren followed us, but before we could get a single idea clearly into\ntheir heads a man came and chased them away. \"It is getting dark,\" he\nsaid. \"They are only little green things; they must not be out late.\" It\nwas broad daylight then, and would be for another hour. Some coolies\npassing that way stopped to look at us; but before they had time to get\ninterested they too remarked that darkness was coming, and they must be\noff, and off they went.\n\nWe were left alone after that. Within five minutes' walk were at least\nfive hundred souls, redeemed, but they don't know it; redeemed, _but\nthey don't want to know it_. Sometimes they seem to want to know, but\nhowever tenderly you tell it, the keen Hindu mind soon perceives the\ndrift of it all--Redemption must mean loss of Caste. One day last week I\nwas visiting in the Village of the Red Lake. Standing in one of its\ncourtyards you see the Western Ghauts rising straight up behind. The Red\nLake lies at the mountain foot; we call it Derwentwater, but there are\npalms and bamboos, and there is no Friar's Crag.\n\nThat afternoon I was bound for a house in the centre of the village,\nwhen an old lady called me to come to her house, and I followed her\ngladly. There were six or eight women all more or less willing to\nlisten; among them were two who were very old. Old people in India are\nusually too attached to their own faith, or too utterly stupid and dull,\nto care to hear about another; but this old lady had been stirred to\nsomething almost like active thought by the recent death of a relative,\nand she felt that she needed something more than she had to make her\nready for death. She was apparently devout. Ashes were marked on her\nbrow and arms, and she wore a very large rosary. It is worn to\naccumulate merit. I did not refer to it as I talked, but in some dim way\nshe seemed to feel it did not fit with what I was saying, for, with\ntrembling hands, she took it off and threw it to a child. I hoped this\nmeant something definite, and tried to lead her to Jesus. But as soon as\nshe understood Who He was, she drew back. \"I cannot be a disciple of\nyour Guru, here,\" she said; \"would my relations bear such defilement?\"\nBeing a Christian really meant sooner or later leaving her home and all\nher people for ever. Can you wonder an old lady of perhaps seventy-five\nstopped at that?\n\nThe little children in the Village of the Warrior are not allowed to\nlearn. The men of the place have consulted and come to the decision. The\nchill of it has struck the little ones, and they do not care to run the\nchance of the scolding they would receive if they showed too much\ninterest in us. The mothers are as friendly as ever, but indifferent.\n\"We hear this is a religion which spoils our Caste,\" they say, and that\nis the end of it. In the great house of the Temple Village they listened\nwell for some weeks. Then, as it gradually opened to them that there is\nno Caste whatever in Christianity, their interest died.\n\nHow much one would like to tell a different story! But a made-up story\nis one thing and a story of facts is another. So far we have only found\ntwo genuine earnest souls here. But if those two go on--! Praise God for\nthe joy on before!\n\nWe went again to the potters' village and sat on the narrow verandah and\ntalked to a girl as she patted the pots into shape underneath where the\nwheel had left an open place. She listened for awhile; then she said,\n\"If I come to your Way will you give me a new seeley and good curry\nevery day?\" And back again we went to the very beginning of things,\nwhile the old grandfather spinning his wheel chuckled at us for our\nfolly in wasting our time over potters. \"As if _we_ would ever turn to\nyour religion!\" he said. \"Have you ever heard of a potter who changed\nhis Caste?\"\n\nCaste and religion! They are so mixed up that we do not know how to\nunmix them. His Caste to the potter meant his trade, the trade of his\nclan for generations; it meant all the observances bound up with it; it\nmeant, in short, his life. It would never strike him that he could be a\nChristian and a potter at the same time, and very probably he could not;\nthe feeling of the Caste would be against it. Then what else could he\nbe? He does not argue all this out; he does not care enough about the\nmatter to take the trouble to think at all. He has only one concern in\nlife--he lives to make pots and sell them, and make more and sell them,\nand so eat and sleep in peace.\n\nBut the girl had the look of more possibility; she asked questions and\nseemed interested, and finally suggested we should wait till she had\nfinished her batch of pots, and then she would \"tell us all her mind.\"\nSo we waited and watched the deft brown hands as they worked round the\ngaping hole till it grew together and closed; and at last she had\nfinished. Then she drew us away from the group of curious children, and\ntold us if we would come in three days she would be prepared to join our\nWay and come with us, for she had to work very hard at home, and her\nfood was poor and her seeley old, and she thought it would be worth\nrisking the wrath of her people to get all she knew we should give her\nif she came; and this was all her mind.\n\nShe had touched a great perplexity. How are we to live in India without\nraising desires of this sort? It is true the Brahmans look down upon us,\nand the higher Castes certainly do not look up, but to the greater\nnumber of the people we seem rich and grand and desirable to cultivate.\nThe Ulterior-Object-Society is a fact in South India. We may banish\nexpensive-looking things from our tables, and all pictures and ornaments\nfrom our walls, and confine ourselves to texts. This certainly helps;\nthere is less to distract the attention of the people when they come to\nsee us, and we have so many the fewer things to take care of--a very\ngreat advantage--but it does not go far towards disillusioning them as\nto what they imagine is our true position. We are still up above to\nthem; not on a level, not one of themselves.\n\nThe houses we live in are airy and large, and they do not understand the\nneed of protection from the sun. The food we eat is abundant and good,\nand to them it looks luxurious, for they live on rice and vegetable\ncurry, at a cost of twopence a day. Our walls may be bare, but they are\nclean, and the texts aforesaid are not torn at the corners; so, whatever\nwe say, we are rich.\n\nIdentification with the people whom we have come to win is the aim of\nmany a missionary, but the difficulty always is the same--climate and\ncustoms are dead against it; how can we do it? George Bowen struck at\nEnglish life and became a true Indian, so far as he could, but even he\ncould not go all the way. No matter how far you may go, there is always\na distance you cannot cover--yards or inches it may be, but always that\nfatal hiatus. We seem so undeniably up, far up above them in everything,\nand we want to get to the lowest step down, low enough down to lift lost\nsouls up.\n\n[Illustration: \"I went down to the potter's house, and, behold, he\nwrought a work on the wheels.\" The vessel the potters are making here is\nworth about a halfpenny, but it is perfect of its kind. The moulder\nnever lifts his hand from it from the moment he puts a lump of shapeless\nclay on the wheel till the moment he takes it off finished, so far as\nthe wheel can finish it. If it is \"marred,\" it is \"marred _in the hand_\nof the potter,\" and instantly he makes it again another vessel as it\nseems good to him. He never wastes the clay.]\n\nOn and on, if they will let us, time after time, by text and hymn and\nstory, we have to explain what things really mean before they are able\nto understand even a fraction of the truth. The fact that this girl had\nthought enough to get her ideas into shape was encouraging, and with\nsuch slender cause for hope we still hoped. But when after some weeks'\nvisiting she began to see that the question was not one of curries and\nseeleys but of inward invisible gifts, her interest died, and she was\n\"out\" when we went, or too busy patting her pots to have time to listen\nto us.\n\nHumdrum we have called the work, and humdrum it is. There is nothing\nromantic about potters except in poetry, nor is there much of romance\nabout missions except on platforms and in books. Yet \"though it's dull\nat whiles,\" there is joy in the doing of it, there is joy in just\nobeying. He said \"Go, tell,\" and we have come and are telling, and we\nmeet Him as we \"go and tell.\"\n\nBut, dear friends, do not, we entreat you, expect to hear of us doing\ngreat things, as an everyday matter of course. Our aim is great--it is\n_India for Christ_! and before the gods in possession here, we sing\nsongs unto Him. But what we say to you is this: Do not expect every true\nstory to dovetail into some other true story and end with some\nmarvellous coincidence or miraculous conversion. Most days in real life\nend exactly as they began, so far as visible results are concerned.\nWe do not find, as a rule, when we go to the houses--the literal little\nmud houses, I mean, of literal heathendom--that anyone inside has been\npraying we might come. I read a missionary story \"founded on fact\" the\nother day, and the things that happened in that story on these lines\nwere most remarkable. They do not happen here. Practical missionary life\nis an unexciting thing. It is not sparkling all over with incident. It\nis very prosaic at times.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nCorrespondences\n\n          \"It is very pleasant when you are in England, and\n          you see souls being saved, and you see the\n          conviction of sin, and you see the power of the\n          Gospel to bring new life and new joy and purity to\n          hearts. But it is still more glorious amongst the\n          heathen to see the same things, to see the Lord\n          there working His own work of salvation, and to\n          see the souls convicted and the hearts broken, and\n          to see there the new life and the new joy coming\n          out in the faces of those who have found the Lord\n          Jesus.\"\n                            _Rev. Barclay F. Buxton, Japan._\n\n\nBEFORE putting this chapter together, I have looked long at the\nphotograph which fronts it. The longer one looks the more pitiful it\nseems. Perhaps one reads into it all that one knows of her, all one has\ndone for her, how one has failed--and this makes it sadder than it may\nbe to other eyes. And yet can it fail to be sad? Hood's lines reversed\ndescribe her--\n\n          \"All that is left of her\n           Now is not womanly.\"\n\nThe day we took her photo she was returning from her morning worship at\nthe shrine. She had poured her libation over the idol, walked round and\nround it, prostrated herself before it, gone through the prayers she had\nlearned off by heart, and now was on her way home.\n\n[Illustration: A Saivite ascetic. Siva represents the severer side of\nHinduism, the Powers of Nature which destroy. But as all disintegrated\nthings are reintegrated in some other form, the two Powers, Destruction\nand Reconstruction, were united in the thought of the old Hindus, and\nSiva represents the double Power. The Saivite form of Hinduism is older\nthan the Vaishnavite, and more widely spread over India. There are said\nto be 30,000,000 symbols of the god Siva scattered about the land.\nSaivites are instantly recognised by the mark of white ashes on their\nforeheads, and sometimes on the breast and arms, and often a necklet of\nberries is worn.]\n\nWe had gone to her village to take photographs, and had just got the\nstreet scene in the morning light. The crowd followed us, eager to see\nmore of the doings of the picture-catching box; and she, fearing the\ndefiling touch of the mixed Castes represented there, had climbed up on\na granite slab by the side of the road, and stood waiting till we\npassed.\n\nThere we saw her, and there we took her,--for, to our surprise, she did\nnot object,--and now here she is, to show with all the force of truth\nhow far from ideal the real may be. We looked at her as I look at her\nnow, stripped of all God meant her to have when He made her, deep in the\nmire of the lowest form of idolatry, a devotee of Siva. She had been to\nBenares and bathed in the sacred Ganges, and therefore she is holy\nbeyond the reach of doubt. She has no room for any sense of the need of\nChrist. She pities our ignorance when we talk to her. Is she not a\ndevotee? Has she not been to Benares?\n\nOften and often we meet her in the high-caste houses of the place, where\nshe is always an honoured guest because of her wonderful sanctity. She\nwatches keenly then lest any of the younger members of the household\nshould incline to listen to us.\n\nOne of her relatives is an English-educated lawyer, a bitter though\ncovert foe, who not long ago stirred up such opposition that we were\nwarned not to go near the place. Men had been hired \"to fall upon us and\nbeat us.\" This because a girl, a connection of his, read her Bible\nopenly, instead of in secret as she had done before. He connected this\naction on her part with a visit we had paid to the house, and so induced\ncertain of the baser sort to do this thing. We went, however, just the\nsame, as we had work we had promised to do, and saw the old gentleman\nsitting on the verandah reading his English newspaper in the most\npacific fashion. He seemed surprised to see us as we passed with a\nsalaam; we saw nothing of the beaters, and returned with whole bones, to\nthe relief of the community at large. Only I remember one of our Band\nwas woefully disappointed: \"I thought, perhaps, we were going to be\nmartyrs,\" she said.\n\n[Illustration: Street in the Red Lake Village. An ordinary typical\nvillage scene, except that just then there were more people than usual\nbefore the picture-catching box. The only way to keep them from crowding\nround it was to show them something else: this explains the group on the\nstones at the side.]\n\nAnd so we realise, as so often in India, the power of both extremes; the\none with all the force of his education, and the other with all the\nforce of her superstition, each uniting with the other in repelling the\ncoming of the Saviour both equally need.\n\nAs one looks at the photograph, does it not help in the effort to\nrealise the utter hopelessness, from every human point of view, of\ntrying to win such a one, for example, to even care to think of Christ?\nThere is, over and above the natural apathy common to all, an immense\nbarrier of accumulated merit gained by pilgrimages, austerities, and\nreligious observances, and the soul is perfectly satisfied, and has no\ndesire whatever after God. It is just this self-satisfaction which makes\nit so hopeless to try to do anything with it.\n\nAnd yet nothing is hopeless to God; \"Set no borders to His strength,\" a\nJapanese missionary said. We say it over and over again to ourselves, in\nthe face of some great hopelessness, like that photograph before us; and\nsometimes, as if to assure us it is so, God lifts some such soul into\nlight. Just now we are rejoicing in a letter from the eastern side of\nthe district, telling us of the growth in the new life of one who only a\nlittle while ago was a temple devotee.\n\nOne has often longed to see Him work as He worked of old, healing the\nsick by the word of His power, raising the dead. But when we see Him\ngathering one--and such a one!--from among the heathen to give thanks\nunto His holy Name and to triumph in His praise, one feels that indeed\nit is a miracle of miracles, and that greater than a miracle wrought on\nthe body is a miracle wrought on the soul. But nothing I can write can\nshow you the miracle it was. In that particular case it was like seeing\na soul drawn out of the hand of the Ruler of Darkness. All salvation is\nthat in reality, but sometimes, as in her case, when the whole\nenvironment of the soul has been strongly for evil in its most dangerous\nphase, then it is more evidently so.\n\nPerhaps we should explain. We know that in its widest sense environment\nsimply means \"all that is.\" We know that \"all that is\" includes the\nexistence of certain beings, described as \"Powers\" in Ephesians vi. 12.\nSome of us are more or less unconscious of this part of our environment.\nWe have no conscious correspondence with it, but it is there. Others,\nagain, seek and find such correspondence, to their certain and awful\nloss.\n\nSuch a subject can hardly bear handling in language. Thank God we know\nso little about it that we do not know how to speak of it accurately.\nNeither, indeed, do we wish to intrude into those things which we have\nnot seen by any attempt at close definition; but we know there is this\nunhallowed correspondence between men and demons, which in old days\ndrew down, as a lightning conductor, the flash of the wrath of God.\n\nHere in India it exists; we often almost touch it, but not quite. We\nwould not go where we knew we should see it, even if we might; so,\nunless we happen upon it, which is rare, we never see it at all. A year\nago I saw it, and that one look made me realise, as no amount of\nexplanations ever could, how absolutely out of reach of all human\ninfluence such souls are. _Nothing_ can reach them, nothing but the\nmight of the Holy Ghost.\n\nSo I close with this one look. Will you pray for those to whom in the\nmoonless night, at the altar by the temple, there is the sudden coming\nof that which they have sought--the \"possession,\" the \"afflatus,\" which\nfor ever after marks them out as those whose correspondences reach\nbeyond mortal ken. All devotees have not received this awful baptism,\nbut in this part of India many have.\n\nWe were visiting in a high-caste house. The walls were decorated with\nmythological devices, and even the old wood-carvings were full of\nidolatrous symbols. The women were listening well, asking questions and\narguing, until one, an old lady, came in. Then they were silent. She sat\ndown and discussed us. We thought we would change the subject, and we\nbegan to sing. She listened, as they always do, interrupting only to\nsay, \"That's true! that's true!\" Till suddenly--I cannot describe\nwhat--something seemed to come over her, and she burst into a frenzy,\nexclaiming, \"Let me sing! let me sing!\" And then she sang as I never\nheard anyone sing before--the wildest, weirdest wail of a song all about\nidolatry, its uselessness and folly, its sorrow and sin.\n\nSo far I followed her, for I knew the poem well, but she soon turned off\ninto regions of language and thought unreached as yet by me. Here she\ngot madly excited, and, swaying herself to and fro, seemed lashing\nherself into fury. Nearer and nearer she drew to us (we were on the\nfloor beside her); then she stretched out her arm with its clenched\nfist, and swung it straight for my eye. Within a hair's-breadth she drew\nback, and struck out for Victory's; but God helped her not to flinch.\n\nThen I cannot tell what happened, only her form dilated, and she seemed\nas if she would spring upon us, but as if she were somehow held back. We\ndare not move for fear of exciting her more. There we sat for I know not\nhow long, with this awful old woman's clenched fist circling round our\nheads, or all but striking into our eyes, while without intermission she\ncrooned her song in that hollow hum that works upon the listener till\nthe nerve of the soul is drawn out, as it were, to its very farthest\nstretch. It was quite dark by this time; only the yellow flicker of the\nwind-blown flame of the lamp made uncertain lights and shadows round the\nplace where we were sitting, and an eerie influence fell on us all,\nalmost mesmeric in effect. I did not need the awestruck whispers round\nme to tell me what it was. But oh! I felt, as I never felt before, the\nreality of the presence of unseen powers, and I knew that the Actual\nitself was in the room with me.\n\nAt last she fell back exhausted, trembling in every limb. Her old head\nhit the wall as she fell, but I knew we must not help her; it would be\npollution to her if we touched her. The people all round were too\nfrightened to move. So she fell and lay there quivering, her glittering\neyes still fixed on us; and she tried to speak, but could not.\n\nSoftly we stole away, and we felt we had been very near where Satan's\nseat is.\n\nThink of someone you love--as I did then--of someone whose hair is white\nlike hers; but the face you think of has peace in it, and God's light\nlightens it. Then think of her as we saw her last--the old face torn\nwith the fury of hell, and for light the darkness thereof.\n\nOh, friends, do you care enough? Do we care enough out here? God give us\nhearts that can care!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nThe Prey of the Terrible\n\n          \"I believe we are in the midst of a great battle.\n          We are not ourselves fighting, we are simply\n          accepting everything that comes; but the Powers of\n          Light are fighting against the Powers of Darkness,\n          and they will certainly prevail. The Holy Spirit\n          is working, but the people do not as yet know it\n          is the Spirit.\"\n                                 _Hester Needham, Sumatra._\n\n\nTHE devil's favourite device just now is to move interested people to\nfar-away places. We have had several who seemed very near to the\nKingdom. Then suddenly they have disappeared.\n\nThere was Wreath, of the Village of the Temple. She used to listen in\nthe shadow of the door while we sat on the outside verandah. Then she\ngot bolder, and openly asked to see Golden, and talk with her. One day,\nunexpectedly, Golden was led to the Red Lake Village, and to her\nsurprise found Wreath there. She had been sent away from the Village of\nthe Temple, and was now with some other relations, under even stricter\nguard. But God led Golden, all unknowingly, to go straight to the very\nhouse where she was. So she heard again.\n\nNext time Golden went she could not see her alone, but somehow Wreath\ngot her to understand that if she went to a certain tree near the\nwomen's bathing-place, at a certain time next week, she would try to\nmeet her there. Golden went, and they met. Wreath told her she believed\nit all, but she could not then face breaking Caste and destroying her\nfamily's name. They had been good to her, how could she disgrace them?\nStill, she eagerly wanted to go on hearing, and we felt that if she did,\nthe love of God would win. So we were full of hope.\n\nNext time Golden went she could find no trace of her. She has never seen\nher since. There is a rumour that she has been carried off over the\nmountains, hundreds of miles away.\n\nIn another village a bright, keen boy of seventeen listened one day when\nwe taught the women, and, becoming greatly interested, openly took the\nGospel's part when the village elders attacked it. After some weeks he\ngathered courage to come and see the Iyer. He was a very intelligent\nboy, well known all over the countryside, because he had studied the\nTamil classics, and also because of his connection with one of the chief\ntemples of the district.\n\nA fortnight after his visit here, our Band went to his village. They\nheard that he was married and gone, where, no one would say. The\nrelations must have heard of his coming to us (of course he was urged to\ntell them), and they rushed him through a marriage, and sent him off\npost haste. So now there is another key turned, locking him into\nHinduism.\n\nIn the Village of the Wind a young girl became known as an inquirer. Her\nCaste passed the word along from village to village wherever its members\nwere found, and all these relations and connections were speedily\nleagued in a compact to keep her from hearing more. When we went to see\nher, we found she had been posted off somewhere else. When we went to\nthe somewhere else (always freely mentioned to us, with invitations to\ngo), we found she had been there, but had been forwarded elsewhere. For\nweeks she was tossed about like this; then we traced her, and found her.\nBut she was thoroughly cowed, and dared not show the least interest in\nus. It is often like that. Just at the point where the soul-poise is so\ndelicate that the lightest touch affects it, something, someone, pushes\nit roughly, and it trembles a moment, then falls--on the wrong side.\n\nThe reason for all this alertness of opposition is, that scattered about\nthe five thousand square miles we call our field, here and there seeds\nare beginning to grow. Some of the sowers are in England now, and some\nare in heaven--sowers and reapers, English and Tamil, rejoice together!\nThis is known everywhere, for the news spreads from town to town, and\nthen out to the villages, and the result is opposition. Sometimes the\nlittle patch of ground which looked so hopeful is trampled, and the\nyoung seedlings killed; sometimes they seem to be rooted up. When we go\nto our Master and tell Him, He explains it: \"An Enemy hath done this.\"\nBut as the measure of the Enemy's activity is in direct proportion to\nthe measure of God's working, we take it as a sign of encouragement,\nhowever hindering it may be. Satan would not trouble to fight if he saw\nnothing worth attacking; he does not seem to mind the spread of a head\nknowledge of the Doctrine, or even a cordial appreciation of it. Often\nwe hear the people say how excellent it is, and how they never worship\nidols now, but only the true God; and even a heathen mother will make\nher child repeat its texts to you, and a father will tell you how it\ntells him Bible stories; and if you are quite new to the work you put it\nin the _Magazine_, and at home it sounds like conversion. All this goes\non most peacefully; there is not the slightest stir, till something\nhappens to show the people that the Doctrine is not just a Creed, but\ncontains a living Power. And then, and not till then, there is\nopposition.\n\nThis opposition is sufficiently strong in the case of a boy or young man\n(older Caste men and women rarely \"change their religion\" in this part\nof South India), but if a girl is in question, the Caste is touched at\nits most sensitive point, and the feeling is simply intense. Men and\ndemons seem to conspire to hold such a one in the clutch of the\nTerrible.\n\nThere is a young girl in Cupid's Lake Village whose heart the Lord\nopened some weeks ago. She is a gentle, timid girl, and devoted to her\nmother. \"Can it be right to break my mother's heart?\" she used to ask us\npitifully. We urged her to try to win her mother, but the mother was\njust furious. The moment she understood that her daughter wanted to\nfollow Jesus, or \"join the Way,\" as she would express it, she gathered\nthe girl's books and burnt them, and forbade her ever to mention the\nsubject; and she went all round the villages trying to stop our work.\n\nAt last things came to a crisis. The girl was told to do what she felt\nwould be sin against God. She refused. They tried force, sheer brute\nforce. She nerved herself for the leap in the dark, and tried to escape\nto us. But in the dark night she lost the way, and had to run back to\nher home. Next morning the village priest spread a story to the effect\nthat his god had appeared to him, told him of her attempt to escape, and\nthat she would try twice again, \"but each time I will stand in the way\nand turn her back,\" he said.\n\nThis naturally startled the girl. \"Is his god stronger than Jesus?\" she\nasked in real perplexity. We told her we thought the tale was concocted\nto frighten her; the priest had seen her, and made up the rest. But\ntwice since then, driven by dire danger, that girl has tried to get to\nus, and each time she has been turned back. And now she is kept in\nrigorous guard, as her determination to be a Christian is well known to\nall in the place.\n\nDo you say, \"Tell her to stay at home and bear it patiently\"? We do tell\nher so, when we can see her, but we add, \"till God makes a way of\nescape\"; and if you knew all there is to be known about a Hindu home,\nand what may happen in it, you would not tell her otherwise.\n\nBut supposing there is nothing more than negative difficulty to be\nfeared, have you ever tried in thought to change places with such a\ngirl? Have you ever considered how impossible it is for such a one to\ngrow? The simple grace of continuance is in danger of withering when all\nhelp of every sort is absolutely cut off, and the soul is, to begin\nwith, not deeply rooted in God. Plants, even when they have life, need\nwater and sunshine and air. Babes need milk.\n\nYou find it hard enough to grow, if one may judge from the constant\nwails about \"leanness,\" and yet you are surrounded by every possible\nhelp to growth. You have a whole Bible, not just a scrap of it; and you\ncan read it all, and understand at least most of it. You have endless\ngood books, hymn-books, and spiritual papers; you have sermons every\nweek, numerous meetings for edification, and perhaps an annual\nConvention. Now strip yourself of all this. Shut your Bible, and forget\nas completely as if you had never known it all you ever read or heard,\nexcept the main facts of the Gospel. Forget all those strengthening\nverses, all those beautiful hymns, all those inspiring addresses.\nLikewise, of course, entirely forget all the loving dealings of God with\nyourself and with others--a Hindu has no such memories to help her. Then\ngo and live in a devil's den and develop saintliness. The truth is, even\nyou would find it difficult; but this Hindu girl's case is worse than\nthat, a million times worse. Think of the life, and then, if you can,\ntell her she must be quite satisfied with it, that it is the will of\nGod. You could not say that it is His will! It is the will of the\nTerrible, who holds on to his prey, and would rather rend it limb from\nlimb than ever let it go.\n\nWe are often asked to tell converts' stories; and certainly they would\nthrill, for the way of escape God opens sometimes is, like Peter's from\nprison, miraculous; and truth is stranger than fiction, and far more\ninteresting. But we who work in the Terrible's lair, and know how he\nfights to get back his prey, even after it has escaped from him, are\nafraid to tell these stories too much, and feel that silence is safest,\nand, strange as it may seem to some, for the present most glorifies God.\n\nFor a certain connection has been observed between publicity and peril.\nAnd we have learned by experience to fear any attempt to photograph\nspiritual fruit. The old Greek artist turned away the face that held too\nmuch for him to paint; and that turned-away face had power in it, they\nsay, to touch men's hearts. We turn these faces away from you; may the\nvery fact that we do it teach some at home to realise how much more lies\nin each of them than we can say, how great a need there is to pray that\neach may be kept safe. The names of one and another occur, because they\ncame in the letters so often that I could not cross them all out without\naltering the character of the whole; they are part of one's very life.\n\nBut as even a passing mention may mean danger, unless a counteracting\ninfluence of real prayer protects them, we ask you to pray that the\ntender protection of God may be folded round each one of them; and then\nwhen we meet where no sin can creep into the telling, and no harm can\nfollow it, they will tell you their stories themselves, and God will\ngive you your share in the joy, comrades by prayer at home! But let us\npress it on you now--pray, oh, pray for the converts! Pray that they may\ngrow in Christ. Pray that He may see of the travail of His soul, and be\nsatisfied with each of them. And pray that we may enter into that\ntravail of soul with Him. Nothing less is any good. Spiritual children\nmean travail of soul--spiritual agony. I wonder who among those who read\nthis will realise what I mean. Some will, I think; so I write it. It is\na solemn thing to find oneself drawn out in prayer which knows no relief\ntill the soul it is burdened with is born. It is no less solemn\nafterwards, until Christ is formed in them. Converts are a responsible\njoy.\n\nAnd now we have told you a little of what is going on. There are days\nwhen nothing seems to be done, and then again there are days when the\nTerrible seems almost visible, as he gathers up his strength, and tears\nand mauls his prey. And so it is true we have to fight a separate fight\nfor each soul. But another view of the case is a strength to us many a\ntime. \"We are not ourselves fighting, but the Powers of Light are\nfighting against the Powers of Darkness,\" and the coming of the victory\nis only a question of time. \"Shall the prey be taken from the Mighty or\nthe captives of the Terrible be delivered? But thus saith the Lord,\n=Even the captives of the Mighty shall be taken away and the prey of the\nTerrible shall be delivered=.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nMissed Ends\n\n          \"If you could only know what one feels on finding\n          oneself . . . where the least ray of the Gospel has\n          not penetrated! If those friends who blame . . .\n          could see from afar what we see, and feel what we\n          feel, they would be the first to wonder that those\n          redeemed by Christ should be so backward in\n          devotion and know so little of the spirit of\n          self-sacrifice. They would be ashamed of the\n          hesitations that hinder us. . . . _We must remember\n          that it was not by interceding for the world in\n          glory that Jesus saved it. He gave Himself. Our\n          prayers for the evangelisation of the world are\n          but a bitter irony so long as we only give of our\n          superfluity, and draw back before the sacrifice of\n          ourselves._\"\n                               _M. Fran\u00e7ois Coillard, Africa._\n\n          \"Someone must go, and if no one else will go, he\n          who hears the call must go; I hear the call, for\n          indeed God has brought it before me on every side,\n          and go I must.\"\n                               _Rev. Henry Watson Fox, India._\n\n\nTHE tom-toms thumped straight on all night, and the darkness shuddered\nround me like a living, feeling thing. I could not go to sleep, so I lay\nawake and looked; and I saw, as it seemed, this:\n\nThat I stood on a grassy sward, and at my feet a precipice broke sheer\ndown into infinite space. I looked, but saw no bottom; only cloud\nshapes, black and furiously coiled, and great shadow-shrouded hollows,\nand unfathomable depths. Back I drew, dizzy at the depth.\n\nThen I saw forms of people moving single file along the grass. They\nwere making for the edge. There was a woman with a baby in her arms and\nanother little child holding on to her dress. She was on the very verge.\nThen I saw that she was blind. She lifted her foot for the next step\n. . . it trod air. She was over, and the children over with her. Oh,\nthe cry as they went over!\n\nThen I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters. All were\nblind, stone blind; all made straight for the precipice edge. There were\nshrieks as they suddenly knew themselves falling, and a tossing up of\nhelpless arms, catching, clutching at empty air. But some went over\nquietly, and fell without a sound.\n\nThen I wondered, with a wonder that was simply agony, why no one stopped\nthem at the edge. I could not. I was glued to the ground, and I could\nnot call; though I strained and tried, only a whisper would come.\n\nThen I saw that along the edge there were sentries set at intervals. But\nthe intervals were far too great; there were wide, unguarded gaps\nbetween. And over these gaps the people fell in their blindness, quite\nunwarned; and the green grass seemed blood-red to me, and the gulf\nyawned like the mouth of hell.\n\nThen I saw, like a little picture of peace, a group of people under some\ntrees, with their backs turned towards the gulf. They were making daisy\nchains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and reached\nthem it disturbed them, and they thought it a rather vulgar noise. And\nif one of their number started up and wanted to go and do something to\nhelp, then all the others would pull that one down. \"Why should you get\nso excited about it? You must wait for a definite call to go! You\nhaven't finished your daisy chains yet. It would be really selfish,\"\nthey said, \"to leave us to finish the work alone.\"\n\nThere was another group. It was made up of people whose great desire was\nto get more sentries out; but they found that very few wanted to go, and\nsometimes there were no sentries set for miles and miles of the edge.\n\nOnce a girl stood alone in her place, waving the people back; but her\nmother and other relations called, and reminded her that her furlough\nwas due; she must not break the rules. And being tired and needing a\nchange, she had to go and rest for awhile; but no one was sent to guard\nher gap, and over and over the people fell, like a waterfall of souls.\n\nOnce a child caught at a tuft of grass that grew at the very brink of\nthe gulf; it clung convulsively, and it called--but nobody seemed to\nhear. Then the roots of the grass gave way, and with a cry the child\nwent over, its two little hands still holding tight to the torn-off\nbunch of grass. And the girl who longed to be back in her gap thought\nshe heard the little one cry, and she sprang up and wanted to go; at\nwhich they reproved her, reminding her that no one is necessary\nanywhere; the gap would be well taken care of, they knew. And then they\nsang a hymn.\n\nThen through the hymn came another sound like the pain of a million\nbroken hearts wrung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of great\ndarkness was upon me, for I knew what it was--the Cry of the Blood.\n\nThen thundered a Voice, the Voice of the Lord: \"=And He said, What hast\nthou done? The voice of thy brothers' blood crieth unto Me from the\nground.=\"\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nThe tom-toms still beat heavily, the darkness still shuddered and\nshivered about me; I heard the yells of the devil-dancers and the weird\nwild shriek of the devil-possessed just outside the gate.\n\nWhat does it matter, after all? It has gone on for years; it will go on\nfor years. Why make such a fuss about it?\n\nGod forgive us! God arouse us! Shame us out of our callousness! Shame us\nout of our sin!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne afternoon, a few weeks after that night at the precipice edge,\nVictory and I were visiting in the Red Lake Village, when we heard the\ndeath-beat of the tom-tom and the shriek of the conch shell, and we knew\nthat another had gone beyond our reach. One can never get accustomed to\nthis. We stopped for a moment and listened.\n\nThe women we were teaching broke in with eager explanations. \"Oh, he was\nsuch a great one! He had received the Initiation. There will be a grand\nceremonial, grander than ever you have!\" Then they told us how this\ngreat one had been initiated into the Hindu mysteries by his family\npriest, and that the mystical benefits accruing from this initiation\nwere to be caused to revert to the priest. This Reverting of the\nInitiation was to be one of the ceremonies. We watched the procession\npass down the street. They were going for water from a sacred stream\nfor the bathing of purification. When they return, said the women, the\nceremonies will begin.\n\nA little later we passed the house, and stood looking in through the\ndoorway. There was the usual large square courtyard, with the verandah\nrunning round three sides. The verandah was full of women. We longed to\ngo in, but did not think they would let us. The courtyard was rather\nconfused; men were rushing about, putting up arches and decorating them;\nservants were sweeping, and cooking, and shouting to one another; the\nwomen were talking and laughing. And all the time from within the house\ncame the sound of the dirge for the dead, and the laugh and the wail\nstruck against each other, and jarred. No one noticed us for awhile, but\nat last a woman saw us, and beckoned us to come. \"We are all defiled\nto-day; you may sit with us,\" they said; and yielding to the instincts\nof their kindly Tamil nature, they crushed closer together to make room\nfor us beside them. How I did enjoy being squeezed up there among them.\nBut to appreciate that in the least you would have to work in a\ncaste-bound part of old India; you can have no idea, until you try, how\nhard it is to refrain from touching those whom you love.\n\nThe house door opened upon the verandah, and we could hear the moan of\nthe dirge. \"There is sorrow on the sea; it cannot be quiet.\" There was\nno quietness, only the ceaseless moan, that kept rising into a wail;\nthere were tears in the sound of the wail, and I felt like a sort of\nliving harp with all its strings drawn tight.\n\nBut the women outside cared nothing at all. It was strange to see how\ncallous they were. It was not their _own_ who had died, so they chatted\nand laughed and watched the proceedings--the tying of the garlands round\nthe arches, the arrangement of offerings for the Brahmans. It was all\nfull of interest to them. We tried to turn their thoughts to the Powers\nof the World to Come. But no. They did not care.\n\nPresently there was a stir. \"The men are coming!\" they said. \"Run! there\nis a shady corner under those palms on the far verandah! Run and hide!\nThey are here!\" And, even as they spoke, in streamed the men, each with\nhis brass water-vessel poised on his head, and they saw us standing\nthere. We thought they would turn us out, and were quite prepared to go\nat a sign from the head of the clan. But he was a friend of ours, and he\nsmiled as we salaamed, and pointed to a quiet corner, out of the way,\nwhere we could see it all without being too much seen.\n\nTo understand this, which to me was a surprise, one must remember that\nby nature the Indian is most courteous, and if it were not for Caste\nrules we should be allowed to come much closer to them than is possible\nnow. To-day they were all ceremonially unclean, so our presence was not\nconsidered polluting. Also the Indian loves a function; sad or glad, it\nmatters little. Life is a bubble on the water; enjoy it while you may.\nAnd they sympathised with what they thought was our desire to see the\nshow. This was human; they could understand it. So they let us stay; and\nwe stayed, hoping for a chance later on.\n\nThen the ceremonies began. They carried the dead man out and laid him in\nthe courtyard under the arch of palms. He was old and worn and thin. One\ncould see the fine old face, with the marks of the Hindu trident painted\ndown the forehead. He had been a most earnest Hindu; all the rites were\nduly performed, and morning and night for many years he had marked those\nmarks on his brow. Had he ever once listened to the Truth? I do not\nknow. He must have heard about it, but he had not received it. He died,\nthey told us, \"not knowing what lay on the other side.\"\n\nThe water-bearers laid their vessels on the ground. Each had a leaf\nacross its mouth. The priest was crowned with a chaplet of flowers. Then\ncame the bathing. They threw up a shelter, and carried him there. It was\nreverently done. There was a touch of refinement in the thought which\nbanished the women and children before the bathing began. Tamils bathe\nin the open air, and always clothed, but always apart. And as the\nwomen's verandah overlooked the screened enclosure, they were all\nordered off. They went and waited, silent now, awed by the presence of\nthe men. While the bathing was going on the priests chanted and muttered\nincantations, and now and again a bell was rung, and incense waved, and\ntapers lighted. Now they were causing that mysterious Something which\nstill hovered round the lifeless form to leave it and return to them,\nand when the bathing was over they signified that all was done; the\nInfluence had departed, descended; the funeral ceremonies might proceed.\n\nAnd all this time, without a break, the dirge was being sung by the\nmourners in the house. It was a sort of undernote to all the sounds\noutside. Then the old man, robed in white and crowned and wreathed with\nflowers, was carried round to the other side; and oh, the pitifulness of\nit all! St. Paul must have been thinking of some such scene when he\nwrote to the converts, \"That ye sorrow not even as others which have no\nhope.\" And I thought how strangely callous we were, how superficial our\nsympathy. The Lord's command does not stir us, the sorrow of those we\nneglect does not touch us; we think so much more of ourselves and our\nown selfish pleasure than we think of the purpose for which we were\nsaved--and at such a tremendous cost! Oh for a baptism of reality and\nobedience to sweep over us! Oh to be true to the hymns we sing and the\nvows we make! _God make us true._\n\nForgive all this. It was burnt into me afresh that day as I sat there\nwatching the things they did and listening to what they said. We had\ncome too late for that old dead man, too late for most of the living\nones too. Can you wonder if at such solemn times one yields oneself\nafresh and for ever to obey?\n\nRice was prepared for the dead man's use, and balls of rice were ready\nto be offered to his spirit after his cremation; for the Hindus think\nthat an intermediate body must be formed and nourished, which on the\nthirteenth day after death is conducted to either heaven or hell,\naccording to the deeds done on earth. The ceremonies were all\ncharacterised by a belief in some future state. The spirit was\nsomewhere--in the dark--so they tried to light the way for him. This\nreminds me of one ceremony especially suggestive. All the little\ngrandchildren were brought, and lighted tapers given to them; then they\nprocessioned round the bier, round and round many times, holding the\ntapers steadily, and looking serious and impressed.\n\nThen the widow came out with a woman on either side supporting her. And\nshe walked round and round her husband, with the tears rolling down her\nface, and she wailed the widow's wail, with her very heart in it. Why\nhad he gone away and left her desolate? His was the spirit of fragrance\nlike the scented sandal-wood; his was the arm of strength like the lock\nthat barred the door. Gone was the scent of the sandal, broken and open\nthe door; why had the bird flown and left but the empty cage? Gone! was\nhe gone? Was he really gone? Was it certain he was dead? He who had\ntossed and turned on the softest bed they could make, must he lie on the\nbed of his funeral pyre? Must he burn upon logs of wood? Say, was there\nno way to reach him, no way to help him now? \"I have searched for thee,\nbut I find thee not.\" And so the dirge moaned on.\n\nI could not hear all this then; Victory told it to me, and much more,\nafterwards. \"Last time I heard it,\" she said, \"I was _inside_, wailing\ntoo.\"\n\nAs the poor widow went round and round she stopped each time she got to\nthe feet, and embraced them fervently. Sometimes she broke through all\nrestraint, and clasped him in her arms.\n\n[Illustration: A photo rarely possible. The dead woman lies in her bier;\nthe white on her eyes and brow is the mark of Siva's ashes. Some of the\nmourners are so marked, as they are all Saivites. The fire is lighted\nfrom the pot of fire to the right. Just before it is lighted, the chief\nmourner takes a vessel of water, pierces a hole in it, walks round the\ndead, letting the water trickle out, pierces another hole and repeats\nthe walk. After the third piercing and walk, he throws the pot backwards\nover his shoulder, and as it smashes the water all splashes out. This is\nto refresh the spirit if it should be thirsty while its body is being\nburned.]\n\nAfter many ceremonies had been performed, the men all went away, and the\nwomen were left to bid farewell to the form soon to be carried out. Then\nthe men came back and bore him across the courtyard, and paused under\nthe arch outside, while the women all rushed out, tearing their hair and\nbeating themselves and wailing wildly. As they were lifting the bier to\ndepart the cry was, \"Stop! stop! Will he not speak?\" And this, chanted\nagain and again, would have made the coldest care. Then when all was\nover, and the long procession, headed by the tom-toms and conch shells,\nhad passed out of sight, the women pressed in again, and each first let\ndown her hair, and seized her nearest neighbour, and they all flung\nthemselves on the ground and knocked their heads against it, and then,\nrising to a sitting posture, they held on to one another, swaying\nbackwards and forwards and chanting in time to the swaying, in chorus\nand antiphone. All this, even to the hair-tearing and head-knocking, was\ncopied by the children who were present with terrible fidelity.\n\nWe sat down among them. They took our hands and rocked us in the\northodox way. But we did not wail and we did not undo our hair. We tried\nto speak comforting words to those who were really in grief, but we\nfound it was not the time. A fortnight later we went again, and found\nthe house door open because we had been with them that day.\n\nBut we could not help them then, so we rose and were going away, when,\nheld by the power of that dirge of theirs, I turned to look again. The\nlast rays of the afternoon sun were lighting up the courtyard, and\nshining on the masses of black hair and grey. As I looked they got up\none by one, and put their disordered dress to rights, and shook out the\ndust from their glossy hair, and did it up again. And one by one,\nwithout farewell of any sort, they went away. An hour later we met\ngroups of them coming home from bathing. They would not touch us then.\nAfterwards the chief mourners came out and bathed, and went all round\nthe village wailing. And the last thing I saw, as the sun set over the\nhills and the place grew chill and dark, was the old widow, worn out\nnow, returning home in her wet things, wailing still.\n\nI write this under a sense of the solemnity of being \"a servant . . .\nseparated unto the Gospel.\" I would not write one word lightly. But oh!\nmay I ask you to face it? Are we honest towards God? If we were, would\nthese people be left to die as they are being left to die?\n\nWe feel for them. _But feelings will not save souls; it cost God Calvary\nto win us._\n\n_It will cost us as much as we may know of the fellowship of His\nsufferings, if those for whom He died that day are ever to be won._\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nI am writing in the midst of the sights and the sounds of life. There is\nlife in the group of women at the well; life in the voices, in the\nsplash of the water, in the cry of a child, in the call of the mother;\nlife in the flight of the parrots as they flock from tree to tree; life\nin their chatter as they quarrel and scream; life, everywhere life. How\ncan I think out of all this, back into death again?\n\nBut I want to, for you may live for many a year in India without being\nallowed to see once what we have seen twice within two months, and it\ncannot be for nothing that we saw it. We must be meant to show it to\nyou.\n\n[Illustration: This needs to be looked into. Gradually the middle\nclears. The women are holding each other's hands preparatory to swaying\nbackwards and forwards as they chant the dirge for the dead. The lamp\n(you see its top near the vessel on the right) was lighted as soon as\nthe old woman died, and placed at her head on the floor. So blindly they\nshow their sense of the darkness of death. The brass water vessel, with\nthe leaves laid across its mouth, was filled with the water of\npurification. This was poured in a circle on the floor round the body.\nThe bits of grass are the sacred Kusa grass used in many religious\nceremonies.]\n\nThe Picture-catching Missie and I were in the Village of the Tamarind\nTree, when for the second time I saw it. They are very friendly there,\nand just as in the Red Lake Village they let us look behind the curtain,\nso here again they pushed it back, and let us in, and went on with their\nbusiness, not minding us. We crouched up close together on the only\nscrap of empty space, and watched.\n\nEverything was less intense; the dead was only a poor and very old widow\nwho had lived her life out, and was not wanted. There were no near\nkindred, only relations by marriage; it was evident everyone went\nthrough the form without emotion of any sort.\n\nThe woman lay on a rough bier on the floor, and round her crowded a\ndozen old women. At her head there was a brass vessel of water, a\nlamp-stand, some uncooked rice, and some broken cocoanuts. Just before\nwe came in they had filled a little brass vessel from the larger one.\nNow one of the old hags walked round the dead three times, pouring the\nwater out as she walked. Then another fed her--fed that poor dead mouth,\nstuffed it in so roughly it made us sick and faint. There were other\nthings done hurriedly, carelessly; we could not follow them. The last\nwas the rubbing on of ashes--she had been a worshipper of Siva--also\nthey covered the closed eyes with ashes and patted them down flat. And\nall the time the gabble of the women mocked at the silence of death.\nThere was no reverence, no sense of solemnity; the ceremonial so full\nof symbol to its makers, the thinkers of V\u00e9dic times, was to them simply\na custom, a set of customs, to be followed and got through as quickly as\nmight be by heedless hands. And yet they faithfully carried out every\ndetail they knew, and they finished their heartless work and called to\nthe men to come. The men were waiting outside. They came in and carried\nher out.\n\nIt seemed impossible to think of a photograph then; it was most unlikely\nthey would let us take one, and we hardly felt in the spirit of\npicture-catching. Yet we thought of you, and of how you certainly could\nnever see it unless we could show it to you; and we wanted to show it to\nyou, so we asked them if we might. Of course if there had been real\ngrief, as in the other I had seen, we could not have asked it, it would\nhave been intrusion; but here there was none--_that_ was the pathos of\nit. And they were very friendly, so they put their burden on the ground,\nand waited.\n\nThere it is. To the right the barber stands with his fire-bowl hanging\nfrom a chain; this is to light the funeral pyre. The smoke interfered\nwith the photo, but then it is true to life. To the left stands the man\nwith the shell ready to blow. At the back, with the sacred ashes rubbed\non forehead and breast and arms, stand the two nearest relatives, who\nto-morrow will gather the ashes and throw them into the stream.\n\nThe picture was caught. The man with the shell blew it, the man with the\nfire came in front, the bearers lifted the bier; they went away with\ntheir dead.\n\n[Illustration: These are three of the mourners, but they were only\nmourning ceremonially; and so, released for the moment from their duty,\nthey quite enjoyed themselves.]\n\nThen the old women, who had been pressing through the open door, rushed\nback in the usual way and began the usual rock and dirge. These\nComparison Songs are always full of soul. They have sprung into being in\ntimes of deepest feeling, taken shape when hearts were as finely wrought\nmoulds which left their impress upon them. And to hear them chanted\nwithout any soul is somehow a pitiful thing, a sort of profanation, like\nthe singing of sacred words for pay.\n\nThe photograph was not easy to take, the space was so confined, the\nmovement so continuous, the commotion so confusing. _How_ it was taken I\nknow not; the women massed on the floor were not still for more than a\nmoment. In that moment it was done. Then we persuaded three of them to\nrisk the peril of being caught alone. They would not move farther than\nthe wall of the house, and as it was in a narrow street, again there\nwere difficulties. But the crowning perplexity was at the water-side. It\nwas windy, and our calls were blown away, so they did not hear what we\nwanted them to do, and they splashed too vigorously. Their only idea\njust then was to get themselves and their garments ceremonially clean,\ndefiled as they were by contact with the dead.\n\nBut let those six whom you can partly see stand for the thousands upon\nthousands whom you cannot see at all. Those thousands are standing in\nwater to-day from the North to the uttermost South, as the last act in\nthe drama which they have played in the presence of the dead.\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nThe women have gone from the well. The parrots have flown to other\ntrees. The Tamils say the body is the sheath of the soul. I think of\nthat empty sheath I saw, and wonder where the soul has flown. It has\ngone--but where? Has it gone home, like the women from the well? Has it\nflown far, like the birds among the trees? It has gone, it has gone,\nthat is all we know. _It has gone._\n\nThen I read these words from Conybeare and Howson's translation: \"If the\ntent which is my earthly house be destroyed I have a mansion built by\nGod . . . eternal in the heavens. And herein I groan with earnest\nlongings, desiring to cover my earthly raiment with the robes of my\nheavenly mansion. . . . _And He who has prepared me for this very end is\nGod._\"\n\nThe dead man missed his End. That old dead woman missed it too. And the\nmillions around us still alive are missing their End to-day. \"This very\nEnd\"--think of it--Mortality swallowed up in Life--Death only an\nabsence, Life for ever a presence--Present with the Lord who has\nprepared us \"for this very End.\"\n\nCan we enjoy it all by ourselves? Will there be no sense of\nincompleteness if the many are outside, missing it all because they\nmissed their End? Will the glory make us glad if they are somewhere far\naway from it and God? Will not heaven be almost an empty place to one\nwho has never tried to fill it? Yet there is room, oh so much room, for\nthose we are meant to bring in with us!\n\nAnd there is room, oh so much room, along the edge of the precipice.\nThere are gaps left all unguarded. Can it be that you are meant to guard\none of those gaps? If so, it will always remain as it is, a\nfalling-point for those rivers of souls, unless you come.\n\nAre these things truth or are they imagination? If they are\nimagination--then let the paper on which they are written be burnt,\nburnt till it curls up and the words fall into dust. But if they are\ntrue--then what are we going to do? Not what are we going to say or\nsing, or even feel or pray--_but what are we going to do?_\n\n[Illustration: The ceremonial bathing. They are all old women, but the\nvery oldest old woman in India bathes most vigorously. After this\nbathing is over, they are purified from the defilement contracted by\ngoing to the house of the dead.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\"The Dust of the Actual\"\n\n          \"This may be counted as our richest gain, to have\n          learned afresh one's utter impotency so completely\n          that the past axiom of service, '_I can no more\n          convert a soul than create a star_,' comes to be\n          an awful revelation, so that God alone may be\n          exalted in that day.\"\n                                 _Rev. Walter Searle, Africa._\n\n\nWE have just come back from a Pariah village. Now see it all with me.\nSuch a curious little collection of huts, thrown down anywhere; such\nhalf-frightened, half-friendly faces; such a scurrying in of some and\nout of others; and we wonder which house we had better make for. We stop\nbefore one a shade cleaner than most, and larger and more open.\n\n\"May we come in?\" Chorus, \"Come in! oh, come in!\" and in we go. It is a\ntiny, narrow slip of a room. At one end there is a fire burning on the\nground; the smoke finds its way out through the roof, and a pot of rice\nset on three stones is bubbling cheerfully. No fear of defilement here.\nThey would not like us to touch their rice or to see them eating it, but\nthey do not mind our being in the room where it is being cooked.\n\nAt the other end of the narrow slip there is a goat-pen, not very clean;\nand down one side there is a raised mud place where the family\napparently sleep. This side and the two ends are roofed by palmyra\npalm. It is dry and crackles at a touch, and you touch it every time you\nstand up, so bits of it are constantly falling and helping to litter the\nopen space below.\n\n[Illustration: An ancient Pariah, but the baby in her arms is a son of\nthe Caste of Palmyra Climbers. Both faces--the old crone's and the baby\nboy's--are very typical. The baby is a \"Christian,\" I should explain,\nand his parents are true Christians, otherwise the Pariah woman would\nnot have been allowed to touch him.]\n\nFive babies at different stages of refractoriness are sprawling about on\nthis strip of floor; they make noises all the time. Half a dozen\nimbecile-looking old women crowd in through the low door, and stare and\nexchange observations. Three young men with nothing particular to do\nlounge at the far end of the platform near the goats. A bright girl,\nwith more jewellery on than is usual among Pariahs, is tending the fire\nat the end near the door; she throws a stick or two on as we enter, and\nhurries forward to get a mat. We sit down on the mat, and she sits\nbeside us; and the usual questions are asked and answered by way of\nintroduction. There is a not very clean old woman diligently devouring\nbetel; another with an enormous mouth, which she always holds wide open;\nanother with a very loud voice and a shock of unspeakable hair. But they\nlisten fairly well till a goat creates a diversion by making a remark,\nand a baby--a jolly little scrap in its nice brown skin and a\nbangle--yells, and everyone's attention concentrates upon it.\n\nThe goat subsides, the baby is now in its mother's arms; so we go on\nwhere we left off, and I watch the bright young girl, and notice that\nshe listens as one who understands. She looks rather superior; her\nrose-coloured seeley is clean, and two large gold jewels are in each\near; she has a little gold necklet round her throat, and silver bangles\nand toe rings. All the others are hopelessly grubby and very\nunenlightened, but they listen just as most people listen in church,\nwith a sort of patient expression. It is the proper thing to do.\n\nI am talking to them now, and till I am half-way through nobody says\nanything, when suddenly the girl remarks, \"We have ten fingers, not just\none!\" which is so astonishing that I stop and wonder what she can be\nthinking of. I was talking about the one sheep lost out of one hundred.\nWhat has that got to do with one finger and ten? She goes on to explain,\n\"I have heard all this before. I have a sister who is a Christian, and\nonce I stayed with her, and I heard all about your religion, and I felt\nin my heart it was good. But then I was married\" (\"tied,\" she said),\n\"and of course I forgot about it; but now I remember, and I say if ten\nof our people will join and go over to your Way, that will be well, but\nwhat would be the use of one going? What is the use of one finger moving\nby itself? It takes ten to do the day's work.\"\n\n\"If ten of you had cholera, and I brought you cholera medicine, would\nyou say, 'I won't take it unless nine others take it too'?\" I replied.\nShe laughs and the others laugh, but a little uneasily. They hardly like\nthis reference to the dreaded cholera; death of the body is so much more\ntremendous in prospect than death of the soul. \"You would take it, and\nthen the others, seeing it do you good, would perhaps take it too\"; and\nwe try to press home the point of the illustration. But a point pricks,\nand pricking is uncomfortable.\n\nThe three men begin to shuffle their feet and talk about other things;\nthe old mother-in-law proposes betel all round, and hands us some\ngrimy-looking leaves with a pressing invitation to partake. The various\nonlookers make remarks, and the girl devotes herself to her baby. But\nshe is thinking; one can see old memories are stirred. At last with a\nsigh she gets up, looks round the little indifferent group, goes over to\nthe fireplace, and blows up the fire. This means we had better say\nsalaam; so we say it and they say it, adding the usual \"Go and come.\"\n\nIt will be easier to help these people out of their low levels than it\nwill be to help their masters of the higher walks of life. But to do\nanything genuine or radical among either set of people is never really\neasy.\n\n\"=It takes the Ideal to blow a hair's-breadth off the Dust of the\nActual.=\"\n\nIt takes more. It takes =God=. It takes =God= to do anything anywhere.\nYesterday we were visiting in one of the Caste villages, and one old\nlady, who really seems to care for us, said she would greatly like to\ntake my hand in hers; \"but,\" she explained, \"this morning one of the\nchildren of the place leaned over the edge of the tank to drink, and he\nfell in and was drowned; so I have been to condole with his people, and\nI have now returned from bathing, and do not feel equal to bathing\nagain.\" If she touched me she would have to bathe to get rid of the\ndefilement. Of course I assured her I quite understood, but as she sat\nthere within two inches of me, yet so carefully preserving inviolate\nthose two inches of clear space, I felt what a small thing this\ncaste-created distance was, the merest \"Dust of the Actual\" on the\nsurface of the system of her life; and yet, \"to blow a hair's-breadth\nof it off, nothing less is needed than the breath of the power of God.\"\n\"Come, O Breath, and breathe!\" we cry. Nothing else will do.\n\nSomething in our talk led to a question about the character of Jesus,\nand, as we tried to describe a little of the loveliness of our dear Lord\nto her, her dark eyes kindled. \"How beautiful it is!\" she said; \"how\nbeautiful He must be!\" She seemed \"almost persuaded,\" but we knew it was\nonly almost, not quite; for she does not yet know her need of a Saviour,\nshe has no sense of sin. Sometimes, it is true, that comes later; but we\nfind that if the soul is to resist the tremendous opposing forces which\nwill instantly be brought to bear upon it if it turns in the least\ntowards Christ, there must be a _conviction_ wrought within it; nothing\nso superficial as a _feeling_, be it ever so appreciative or hopeful or\nloving, will stand that strain.\n\nSo, though the eyes of this dear woman fill with tears as she hears of\nthe price of pain He paid, and though she gladly listens as we read and\ntalk with her and pray, yet we know the work has not gone deep, and we\nmake our \"petitions deep\" for her, and go on.\n\nIn India men must work among men, and women among women, but sometimes,\nin new places, as I have told before, we have to stop and talk with the\nmen before they will let us pass. For example, one afternoon I was\nwaylaid on my way to the women by the head of the household I was\nvisiting, a fine old man of the usual type, courteous but opposed. He\nasked to look at my books. I had a Bible, a lyric book, and a book of\nstanzas bearing upon the Truth, copied from the old Tamil classics. He\npounced upon this. Then he began to chant the stanzas in their\ninimitable way, and at the sound several other old men drew round the\nverandah, till soon a dozen or more were listening with that\nappreciative expression they seem to reserve for their own beloved\npoetry.\n\nAfter the reader had chanted through a dozen or more stanzas, he stopped\nabruptly and asked me if I really cared for it. Of course I said I did\nimmensely, and only wished I knew more, for the Tamil classics are a\nstudy in themselves, and these beautiful ancient verses I had copied out\nwere only gleanings from two large volumes, full of the wisdom of the\nEast.\n\nThey were all thoroughly friendly now, and we got into conversation. One\nof the group held that there are three co-eternal substances--God, the\nSoul, and Sin. Sin is eternally bound up in the soul, as verdigris is\ninherent in copper. It can be removed eventually by intense meditation\nupon God, and by the performance of arduous works of merit. But these\nexercises they all admitted were incompatible with the ordinary life of\nmost people, and generally impracticable. And so the fact is, the\nverdigris of sin remains.\n\nI remember the delight with which I discovered that Isaiah i. 25 uses\nthis very illustration; for the word translated \"dross\" in English is\nthe colloquial word for verdigris in Tamil; so the verse reads, \"I will\nturn My hand to thee, and thoroughly purify thee, _so as to remove thy\nverdigris_.\"\n\nMost of the others held a diametrically opposite view. So far from Soul\nand Sin being co-eternal with God they are not really existent at all.\nBoth are illusory. There is only one existent entity. It is the Divine\nSpirit, and it has neither personality nor any personal qualities. All\napparent separate existences are delusive. Meditation, of the same\nabsorbing type held necessary by the other, is the only way to reach the\nstage of enlightenment which leads to reabsorption into the Divine\nessence, in which we finally merge, and lose what appeared to be our\nseparate identity. We are lost in God, as a drop is lost in the ocean.\n\nSome of the men advocated a phase of truth which reminds one of\nCalvinism gone mad, and others exactly opposite are extravagantly\nArminian. The Calvinists illustrate their belief by a single\nilluminating word, _Cat-hold_, and the Arminians by another,\n_Monkey-hold_. Could you find better illustrations? The cat takes up the\nkitten and carries it in its mouth; the kitten is passive, the cat does\neverything. But the little monkey holds on to its mother, and clings\nwith might and main. Those who have watched the \"cat-hold\" in the house,\nand the \"monkey-hold\" out in the jungle, can appreciate the accuracy of\nthese two illustrations.\n\nBut running through every form of Hinduism, however contradictory each\nto the other may be, there is the underlying thought of pure and simple\nPantheism. And this explains many of the aforesaid contradictions, and\nmany of the incongruities which are constantly cropping up and\nbewildering one who is trying to understand the Hindu trend of thought.\nSo, though those men all affirmed that there is only one God, they\nadmitted that they each worshipped several. They saw nothing\ninconsistent in this. Just as the air is in everything, so God is in\neverything, therefore in the various symbols. And as our King has divers\nrepresentative Viceroys and Governors to rule over his dominions in his\nname, so the Supreme has these sub-deities, less in power and only\nexisting by force of Himself, and He, being all-pervasive, can be\nworshipped under their forms.\n\nThis argument they all unitedly pressed upon me that afternoon, and\nthough capital answers probably present themselves to your mind, you\nmight not find they satisfied the Hindu who argues along lines of logic\npeculiar to the East, and subtle enough to mystify the practical Western\nbrain; and then--for we are conceited as well as practical--we are apt\nto pity the poor Hindu for being so unlike ourselves; and if we are\nwholly unsympathetic, we growl that there is nothing in the argument,\nwhereas there is a good deal in it, only we do not see it, because we\nhave never thought out the difficulty in question. Quite opposite,\nsometimes we have to meet a type of mind like that of MacDonald's\nstudent of Shakespeare, who \"missed a plain point from his eyes being so\nsharp that they looked through it without seeing it, having focussed\nthemselves beyond it.\" Assuredly there is much to learn before one can\nhope to understand the winding of the thread of thought which must be\ntraced if one would follow the working of the Hindu mind. Let no one\nwith a facility for untying mental knots think that his gift would be\nwasted in India!\n\nThe word that struck those men that afternoon was 1 John v. 11 and 12:\n\"God hath given us eternal life, and this life is in His Son. He that\nhath the Son hath life, and he that hath not the Son of God hath not\nlife.\" I was longing to get to the women, but when they began to read\nthose verses and ask about the meaning, I could not go without trying to\ntell them. Oh, how one needed at that moment Christ to become to us\nWisdom, for it is just here one may so easily make mistakes. Put the\ntruth of God's relation to the soul subjectively--\"He that hath the Son\nhath life\"--before thoughtful Hindus such as these men were, and they\nwill be perfectly enchanted; for the Incarnation presents no difficulty\nto them, as it would to a Mohammedan; and perhaps, to your sudden\nsurprise and joy, they will say, that is exactly what they are prepared\nto believe. \"Christ in me\"--this is comprehensible. \"The indwelling of\nthe Spirit of God\"--this is analogous to their own phrase: \"The\nindwelling of the Deity in the lotus of the heart.\" But probably by\ntrading on words and expressions which are already part of the Hindu\nterminology, and which suggest to them materialistic ideas, we may\nseriously mislead and be misled. We need to understand not only what the\nHindu says, but also what his words mean to himself, a very different\nthing.\n\nThat talk ended in a promise from the men that they would arrange a\nmeeting of Hindus for the Iyer, if he would come and take it, which of\ncourse he did. I should like to finish up by saying, \"and several were\nconverted,\" but as yet that would not be true. These deep-rooted ancient\nand strong philosophies are formidable enough, when rightly understood,\nto make us feel how little we can do to overturn them; but they are\njust as \"Dust\" in comparison with the force of the \"Actual\" entrenched\nbehind them. Only superficial Dust; and yet, as in every other case,\nnothing but the Breath of God can blow this Dust away.\n\n[Illustration: Another widow. She was never a wife; and, moved by some\nsort of pity, they let her keep one jewel in each ear. She is a\nVellalar; her people are wealthy landowners. She was ashamed of having\nyielded to the weakness of letting us take her photo; and when we went\nto show it to her, she would not look at it. She has no desire whatever\nto hear; and she and the young girl on the step at her feet are resolute\nin opposing the teaching.]\n\nWe left the old men to their books and endless disquisitions, and went\non to the women's quarter. There we saw a young child-widow, very fair\nand sweet and gentle, but quieter than a child should be; for she is a\nwidow accursed. Her mind is keen--she wants to learn; but why should a\nwidow learn, they say, why should her mind break bounds? She lives in a\ntiny mud-built house, in a tiny mud-walled yard; she may not go out\nbeyond those walls, then why should she _think_ beyond? But she is\nbetter off than most, for she lives with her mother, who loves her, and\nher father makes a pet of her, and so she is sheltered more or less from\nthe cruel scourge of the tongue.\n\nThere is another in the next courtyard; she is not sheltered so. She\nlives with her mother-in-law, and the world has lashed her heart for\nyears; it is simply callous now. There she sits with her chin in her\nhand, just hard. Years ago they married her, an innocent, playful little\nchild, to a man who died when she was nine years old. Then they tore her\njewels from her, all but two little ear-rings, which they left in pity\nto her; and this poor little scrap of jewellery was her one little bit\nof joy. She could not understand it at first, and when her pretty\ncoloured seeleys were taken away, and she had to wear the coarse white\ncloth she hated so, she cried with impotent childish wrath; and then she\nwas punished, and called bitter names,--the very word _widow_ means\nbitterness,--and gradually she understood that there was something\nthe matter with her. She was not like other little girls. She had\nbrought ill-fortune to the home. She was accursed.\n\nIt is true that some are more gently dealt with, and many belong to\nCastes where the yoke of Custom lies lighter; for these the point of the\ncurse is blunted, there is only a dull sense of wrong. But in all the\nupper Castes the pressure is heavy, and there are those who feel\nintensely, feel to the centre of their soul, the sting of the shame of\nthe curse.\n\n\"It is fate,\" says the troubled mother; \"who can escape his fate?\" \"It\nis sin,\" says the mother-in-law; and the rest of the world agrees.\n\"'Where the bull goes, there goes its rope.' 'Deeds done in a former\nbirth, in this birth burn.'\"\n\nMuch of the working of the curse is hidden behind shut doors. I saw a\nyoung widow last week whose mind is becoming deranged in consequence of\nthe severity of the penance she is compelled to perform. When, as they\nput it, \"the god of ill-fortune seizes her,\" that is, when she becomes\nviolent, she is quietly \"removed to another place.\" No one sees what is\ndone to her there, but I know that part of the treatment consists in\nscratching her head with thorns, and then rubbing raw lime juice\nin--lime juice is like lemon juice, only more acid. When the paroxysm\npasses she reappears, and does penance till the next fit comes. This has\nbeen repeated three times within the last few months.\n\nI was visiting in a Hindu house for two years before I found out that\nall that time a girl of seventeen was kept alone in an upper room. \"Let\nher weep,\" they said, quoting a proverb; \"'though she weeps, will a\nwidow's sorrow pass?'\" Once a day, after dark, she was brought\ndownstairs for a few minutes, and once a day, at noon, some coarse food\nwas taken up to her. She is allowed downstairs now, but only in the back\npart of the house; she never thinks of resisting this decree--it, and\nall it stands for, is her fate. Sometimes the glad girl-life reasserts\nitself, and she plays and laughs with her sister-in-law's pretty baby\nboy; but if she hears a man's voice she disappears upstairs. There are\nproverbs in the language which tell why.\n\nI sat on the verandah of a well-to-do Hindu house one day, and talked to\nthe bright-looking women in their jewels and silks. And all the time,\nthough little I knew it, a widow was tied up in a sack in one of the\ninner rooms. This wrong is a hidden wrong.\n\nI do not think that anyone would call the Hindus distinctively cruel; in\ncomparison with most other Asiatics their instincts are kind. A custom\nso merciless as this custom, which punishes the innocent with so\ngrievous a punishment, does not seem to us to be natural to them. It\nseems like a parasite custom, which has struck its roots deep into the\ntree of Hindu social life, but is not part of it. Think of the power\nwhich must have been exerted somewhere by someone before the disposition\nof a nation could be changed.\n\nThis custom as it stands is formidable enough. Many a man, Indian and\nforeign, has fought it and failed. It is a huge and most rigorous system\nof tyrannical oppression, a very pyramid to look at, old, immovable.\nBut there is Something greater behind it. It is only the effect of a\nCause--the Dust of the Actual.\n\nWhat can alter the custom? Strong writing or speaking, agitations, Acts\nof Parliament? All these surely have their part. They raise the\nquestion, stir the Dust--but blow it off? Oh no! nothing can touch the\nconscience of the people, and utterly reverse their view of things, and\nradically alter them, but =God=.\n\nYes, it is true, we may make the most of what has been done by\nGovernment, by missionaries and reformers, but there are times in the\nheart histories of all who look far enough down to see what goes on\nunder the surface of things, when the sorrow takes shape in the\nProphet's cry, \"We have not wrought any deliverance in the earth!\"\n\nIt is true. _We_ have not. We cannot even estimate the real weight of\nthe lightest speck of the Dust that has settled on the life of this\npeople. But we believe that our God, Who comprehended the dust of the\nearth in a measure, comprehends to the uttermost the Dust of the Actual,\nand we believe to see Him work, with Whom is strength and effectual\nworking.\n\nWe believe to see, and believing even now we see; and when we see\nanything, be it ever so little, when the Breath breathes, and even \"a\nhair's-breadth\" of that Dust is blown away, then, with an intensity I\ncannot describe, we feel the presence of the Lord our God among us, and\nlook up in the silence of joy and expectation for the coming of the Day\nwhen all rule, and all authority and power, yea, the power of the very\nActual itself, shall be put down, that God may be all in all.\n\nSo again and yet again we ask you to pray not less for the Reform\nmovement, and the Educational movement, and the Civilising movement of\nIndia, but far more for the Movement of the Breath of God, and far more\nfor us His workers here, that we may abide in Him without Whom we can do\nnothing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nRoots\n\n          \"It is not an easy thing in England to lead an old\n          man or woman to Christ, even though the only\n          'root' which holds them from Him is love of the\n          world. As the Tamil proverb says, 'That which did\n          not bend at five will not be bent at fifty,' still\n          less at sixty or seventy. When a soul in India is\n          held down, not by one root only, but by a myriad\n          roots, who is sufficient to deliver it? Only He\n          who overturneth the mountains by the roots. 'This\n          kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.'\"\n                                  _An Indian Missionary._\n\n\n\"AMMA, you are getting old.\"\n\n\"Yes (grunt), yes.\"\n\n\"When we are old then death is near.\"\n\n\"Yes (grunt), yes.\"\n\n\"Then we must leave our bodies and go somewhere else.\"\n\nThree more grunts.\n\n\"Amma, do you know where you are going?\"\n\nThen the old woman wakes up a little, grunts a little more, \"Who knows\nwhere she is going?\" she mumbles, and relapses into grunts.\n\n\"I know where I am going,\" the girl answers. \"Amma, don't you want to\nknow?\"\n\n\"Don't I want to know what?\"\n\n\"Where you are going.\"\n\n\"Why do I want to know what?\"\n\nThe girl goes over it again. The old woman turns to her\ndaughter-in-law. \"Is the rice ready?\" she says. The girl tries again.\nThe old woman agrees we all must die. Death is near to the ancient; she\nis ancient, therefore death is near to her, she must go somewhere after\ndeath. It would be well to know where she is going. She does not know\nwhere she is going. Then she gazes and grunts.\n\n[Illustration: Enlargement of one of the old dames seen in chapter vi. A\ncapital typical face. We have a number of these keen, interesting old\npeople, but very rarely find they have any desire to \"change their\nreligion.\" They are \"rooted.\"]\n\nThe girl tries on different lines. Whom is the old woman looking to, to\nhelp her when death comes?\n\n\"God.\"\n\n\"What God?\"\n\n\"The great God.\" And rousing herself to express herself she declares\nthat He is her constant meditation, therefore all is well. \"Is the rice\nready?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then give me some betel leaf,\" and she settles down to roll small\npieces of lime into little balls, and these balls she rolls up in a\nbetel leaf, with a bit of areca nut for taste, and this betel leaf she\nputs into her mouth--all this very slowly, and with many inarticulate\nsounds, which I have translated \"grunts.\" And this is all she does. She\ndoes not want to listen or talk, she only wants to scrunch betel, and\ngrunt.\n\nThis is not a touching tale. It is only true. It happened this evening\nexactly as I have told it, and the girl, a distant connection of the old\nwoman, who had come with me so delightedly, eager to tell the Good\nTidings, had to give it up. She had begun by speaking about the love of\nJesus, but that had fallen perfectly flat; so she had tried the more\nstartling form of address, with this result--grunts.\n\nI spent an afternoon not long ago with a more intelligent specimen. Here\nshe is, a fine sturdy old character, one of the three you saw before.\nShe was immensely interested with her photo, which I showed her, and she\ncould not understand at all how, in the one moment when she stood\nagainst a wall, her face \"had been caught on a piece of white paper.\" A\nlittle explanation opened the way for the greater thing I had come\nabout. We were sitting on a mud verandah, opening on to a square\ncourtyard; two women pounding rice, two more grinding it, another\nsweeping, a cow, some fowls, a great many children, and several babies,\nmade it exceedingly difficult to concentrate one's attention on\nanything, and still more difficult to get the wandering brains of an old\nwoman to concentrate on a subject in which she had no interest. She had\nbeen interested in the photograph, but that was different.\n\nThe conversation ended by her remarking that it was getting dark, ought\nI not to be going home? It was not getting dark yet, but it meant that\nshe had had enough, so I salaamed and went, hoping for a better chance\nagain. Next time we visited the Village of the Tamarind she was nowhere\nto be seen; she had gone to her own village, she had only come here for\nthe funeral. Would she return, we asked? Not probable, they said, \"she\nhad come and gone.\" \"Come and gone.\" As they said it, one felt how true\nit was. Come, for that one short afternoon within our reach; gone, out\nof it now for ever.\n\nIn that same village there is one who more than any other drew one's\nheart out in affection and longing, but so far all in vain.\n\nI first saw her in the evening as we were returning home. She was\nsitting on her verandah, giving orders to the servants as they stood in\nthe courtyard below. Then she turned and saw us. We were standing in the\nstreet, looking through the open door. The old lady, in her white\ngarments, with her white hair, sat among a group of women in vivid\nshades of red, behind her the dark wood of the pillar and door, and\nabove the carved verandah roof.\n\nThe men were fresh from the fields, and stood with their rough-looking\nhusbandry implements slung across their shoulders; the oxen, great\nmeek-eyed beasts, were munching their straw and swishing their tails as\nthey stood in their places in the courtyard, where some little children\nplayed.\n\nThe paddy-birds, which are small white storks, were flying about from\nfrond to frond of the cocoanut palms that hung over the wall, and the\nsunset light, striking slanting up, caught the underside of their wings,\nand made them shine with a clear pale gold, gold birds in a darkness of\ngreen. A broken mud wall ran round one end, and the sunset colour\npainted it too till all the red in it glowed; and then it came softly\nthrough the palms, and touched the white head with a sort of sheen, and\nlit up the brow of the fine old face as, bending forward, she beckoned\nto us. \"Come in! come in!\" she said.\n\nWe soon made friends with her. She was a Saivite and we heard afterwards\nhad received the Initiation; the golden symbol of her god had been\nbranded upon her shoulder, and she was sworn to lifelong devotion to\nSiva; but she had found that he was vain, and she never worshipped him,\nshe worshipped God alone, \"and at night, when the household is sleeping,\nI go up alone to an upper room, and stretch out my hands to the God of\nall, and cry with a long, loud cry.\" Then she suddenly turned and faced\nme full. \"Tell me, is that enough?\" she said. \"Is it all I must do for\nsalvation? Say!\"\n\nI did not feel she was ready for a plunge into the deep sea of full\nknowledge yet, and I tried to persuade her to leave that question,\ntelling her that if she believed what we told her of Jesus our Lord, she\nwould soon know Him well enough to ask Him direct what she wanted to\nknow, and He Himself would explain to her all that it meant to follow\nHim. But she was determined to hear it then, and, as she insisted, I\nread her a little of what He says about it Himself. She knew quite\nenough to understand and take in the force of the forceful words. She\nwould not consent to be led gently on. \"No, I must know it now,\" she\nsaid; and as verse by verse we read to her, her face settled\nsorrowfully. \"So far must I follow, so far?\" she said. \"_I cannot follow\nso far._\"\n\nIt was too late for much talk then, but she promised to listen if we\nwould come and read to her. She could not read, but she seemed to know a\ngreat deal about the Bible.\n\nFor some weeks one of us went once a week; sometimes the men of the\nhouse were in, and then we could not read to her, as they seemed to\nobject; but oftener no one was about, and she had her way, and we read.\n\nShe told us her story one afternoon. She was the head of a famous old\nhouse; her husband had died many years ago; she had brought up her\nchildren successfully, and now they were settled in life. She had a\nChristian relation, but she had never seen him; she thought he had a son\nstudying in a large school in England--Cambridge, I knew, when I heard\nthe name; the father is one of our true friends.\n\nAll her sons are greatly opposed, but one of her little girls learnt for\na time, and so the mother heard the Truth, and, being convinced that it\nwas true, greatly desired to hear more.\n\nBut the child was married, and went away, and she feared to ask the\nMissie Ammal to come again, lest people should notice it and talk. So\nthe years passed emptily, \"and oh, my heart was an empty place, a void\nas empty as air!\" And she stretched out her arms, and clasping her hands\nshe looked at the empty space between, and then at me with inquiring\neyes, to see if I understood.\n\nHow well one understood!\n\n          \"I am an emptiness for Thee to fill,\n           My soul a cavern for Thy sea, . . .\n           I have done nought for Thee, am but a Want.\"\n\nShe had never heard it, but she had said it. We do not often hear it\nsaid, and when we do our whole heart goes out to meet the heart of the\none who says it; everything that is in us yearns with a yearning that\ncannot be told, to bring her to Him Who said \"Come.\"\n\nWe were full of hope about her, and we wrote to her Christian relative,\nand he wrote back with joy. It seemed so likely then that she would\ndecide for Christ.\n\nBut one day, for the first time, she did not care to read. I remember\nthat day so well; it was the time of our monsoon, and the country was\none great marsh. We had promised to go that morning, but the night\nbefore the rivers filled, and the pool between her and us was a lake. We\ncalled the bandyman and explained the situation. He debated a little,\nbut at last--\"Well, the bulls can swim,\" he said, and they swam.\n\nWe need not have gone, she was \"out.\" \"Out,\" or \"not at home to-day,\" is\na phrase not confined to Society circles where courtesy counts for more\nthan truth. \"I am in, but I do not want to see you,\" would have been\ntrue, but rude.\n\nThis was the first chill, but she was in next time, and continued to be\nin, until after a long talk we had, when again the question rose and had\nto be faced, \"Can I be a Christian _here_?\"\n\nIt was a quiet afternoon; we were alone, only the little grandchildren\nwere with her--innocent, fearless, merry little creatures, running to\nher with their wants, and pulling at her hands and dress as babies do at\nhome. Their grandmother took no notice of them beyond an occasional pat\nor two, but the childish things, with their bright brown eyes and little\nfat, soft, clinging hands went into the photo one's memory took, and\nhelped one the better to understand and sympathise in the humanness of\nthe pretty home scene, that humanness which is so natural, and which God\nmeant to be. I think there is nothing in all our work which so rends and\ntears at the heart-strings within us, as seeing the spiritual clash with\nthe natural, and to know that while Caste and bigotry reign it always\nmust be so.\n\nWe had a good long talk. \"I want to be a Christian,\" she said, and for a\nmoment I hoped great things, for she as the mistress of the house was\nalmost free to do as she chose. I thought of her influence over her sons\nand their wives, and the little grandchildren; and I think my face\nshowed the hope I had, for she said, looking very direct at me, \"By a\nChristian I mean one who worships your God, and ceases to worship all\nother gods; for He alone is the Living God, the Pervader of all and\nProvider. This I fully believe and affirm, but I cannot break my Caste.\"\n\n\"Would you continue to keep it in all ways?\"\n\n\"How could I possibly break my Caste?\"\n\n\"And continue to smear Siva's sign on your forehead?\"\n\n\"That is indeed part of my Caste.\"\n\nMore especially part of it, I knew, since she had received the\nInitiation.\n\nThen the disappointment got into my voice, and she felt it, and said,\n\"Oh, do not be grieved! These things are external. How can mere ashes\naffect the internal, the real essential, the soul?\"\n\nIt was such a plausible argument, and we hear it over and over again;\nfor history repeats itself, there is nothing new under the sun.\n\nI reminded her that ashes were sacred to Siva.\n\n\"I would not serve Siva,\" she answered me, \"but the smearing of ashes on\none's brow is the custom of my Caste, and I cannot break my Caste.\"\n\nThen she looked at me very earnestly with her searching, beautiful, keen\nold eyes, and she went over ground she knew I knew. She reminded me what\nthe requirements of her Caste had always been, that they must be\nfulfilled by all who live in the house, and she told me in measured\nwords and slow that I knew she could not live at home if she broke the\nlaws of her Caste. But why make so much of trifling things? For matter\nand spirit are distinct, and when the hands are raised in prayer, when\nthe lamp is lighted and wreathed with flowers, the outward observer may\nmistake and think the action is pujah to Agni, but God who reads the\nheart understands, and judges the thought and not the act. \"Yes, my hand\nmay smear on Siva's ashes, while at the same moment my soul may commune\nwith God the Eternal, Who only is God.\"\n\nI turned to verse after verse to show her this sort of thing could never\nbe, how it would mock at the love of Christ and nullify His sacrifice. I\nurged upon her that if she were true, and the central thought of her\nlife were towards God, all the outworkings would correspond, creed\nfitting deed, and deed fitting creed without the least shade of\ndiversity. But faith and practice are not to be confused, each is\nseparate from the other; the two may unite or the one may be divorced\nfrom the other without the integrity of either being affected: this is\nthe unwritten Hindu code which she and hers had ever held; and now,\nafter years of belief in it, to face round suddenly to its\nopposite--this was more than she could do. She held, as it were, the\nTruth in her hand, and turned it round and round and round, but she\nalways ended where she began; she would not, _could_ not, see it as\nTruth, or perhaps more truly, would not accept it. It meant too much.\n\nThere she sat, queen of her home. The sons were expected, and she had\nbeen making preparations for their coming. Her little grandchildren\nplayed about her, each one of them dear as the jewel of her eye. How\ncould she leave it all, how could she leave them all--home, all that it\nstands for; children, all that they mean?\n\nThen she looked at me again, and I shall never forget the look. It\nseemed as if she were looking me through and through, and forcing the\nanswer to come. She spoke in little short sentences, instinct with\nintensity. \"I _cannot_ live here and break my Caste. If I break it I\nmust go. I _cannot_ live here without keeping my customs. If I break\nthem I must go. You know all this. I ask you, then, tell me yes or no.\nCan I live here and keep my Caste, and at the same time follow your God?\nTell me yes or no!\"\n\nI did not tell her--how could I? But she read the answer in my eyes, and\nshe said, as she had said before, \"I cannot follow so far--so far, _I\ncannot follow so far_!\"\n\n\"Reverence for opinions and practice held sacred by his ancestors is\ningrained in every fibre of a Hindu's character, and is, so to speak,\nbred in the very bone of his physical and moral constitution.\" So writes\nSir Monier Williams. It is absolutely true.\n\nOh, friends, is it easy work? My heart is sore as I write, with the\nsoreness that filled it that day. I would have given anything to be able\ntruthfully to say \"yes\" to her question. But \"across the will of nature\nleads on the path of God\" for them; and they have to follow so very far,\nso very, very far!\n\nAll trees have roots. To tear up a full-grown tree by the roots, and\ntransplant it bodily, is never a simple process. But in India we have a\ntree with a double system of roots. The banyan tree drops roots from its\nboughs. These bough roots in time run as deep underground as the\noriginal root. And the tap root and its runners, and the branch roots\nand theirs, get knotted and knit into each other, till the whole forms\none solid mass of roots, thousands of yards of a tangle of roots,\nsinuous and strong. Conceive the uprooting of such a tree, like the\nfamous one of North India, for instance, which sheltered an army of\nseven thousand men. You cannot conceive it; it could not be done, the\nearthward hold is so strong.\n\nThe old in India are like these trees; they are doubly, inextricably\nrooted. There is the usual great tap root common to all human trees in\nall lands--faith in the creed of the race; there are the usual running\nroots too--devotion to family and home. All these hold the soul down.\n\nBut in India we have more--we have the branch-rooted system of Caste;\nCaste so intricate, so precise, that no Western lives who has traced it\nthrough its ramifications back to the bough from which it dropped in the\nolden days.\n\nThis Caste, then, these holding laws, which most would rather die than\nbreak, are like the branch roots of the banyan tree with their infinite\nstrength of grip. But the strangest thing to us is this: the people love\nto have it so; they do not regard themselves as held, these roots are\ntheir pride and joy. Take a child of four or five, ask it a question\nconcerning its Caste, and you will see how that baby tree has begun to\ndrop branch rootlets down. Sixty years afterwards look again, and every\nrootlet has grown a tree, each again sending rootlets down; and so the\nsystem spreads.\n\nBut we look up from the banyan tree. God! what are these roots to Thee?\nThese Caste-root systems are nothing to Thee! India is not too hard for\nThee! O God, come!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nThe Classes and the Masses\n\n          \"We speak of work done against the force of\n          gravitation. If the magnitude of a force can be\n          estimated in any sense by the resistance which it\n          has to overcome, then verily there is no land\n          under the sun more calculated than India to\n          display the Grand Forces of God's Omnipotent\n          Grace. For here it has to face and overcome the\n          _combined resistances_ of the Caste system,\n          entrenched heathenism, and deeply subtle\n          philosophies. Praise God! it can and will be done.\n          Thou, who alone doest wondrous things, work on.\n          'So will we sing and praise Thy power.'\"\n                                  _Rev. T. Walker, India._\n\n\nPERHAPS it would help towards the better understanding of these letters\nif we stopped and explained things a little. Some may have been\nwondering, as they read, how it is that while the South Indian fields\nare constantly quoted as among the most fruitful in the world, we seem\nto be dealing with a class where fruit is very rare, and so subject to\nblighting influences after it has appeared, that we hardly like to speak\nof it till it is ripe and reaped and safe in the heavenly garner. I\nthink it will be easier to understand all this if we view Hindu Tamil\nSouth India (with which alone this book deals) from the outside, and let\nit fall into two divisions the Classes and the Masses. There is, of\ncourse, the border line between, crossed over on either side by some who\nbelong to the Classes but are almost of the Masses, and by some who\nbelong to the Masses but are almost of the Classes. Broadly speaking,\nhowever, there is a distinct difference between the two. As to their\nattitude towards the Gospel, the Classes and the Masses unite; they are\nwholly indifferent to it.\n\nIn a paper read at the Student Volunteers' Conference in 1900, a South\nIndian missionary summed up the matter in a comprehensive sentence:\n\"Shut in for millenniums by the gigantic wall of the Himalayas on the\nNorth, and by the impassable ocean on the South, they have lived in\nseclusion from the rest of the world, and have developed social\ninstitutions and conceptions of the universe, and of right and wrong,\nquite their own. Their own religion and traditionary customs are\naccepted as sufficiently meeting their needs, and they are not conscious\nof needing any teaching from foreigners. They will always listen\ncourteously to what we say, and this constitutes an open door for the\nGospel, but of conscious need and hungering for the Gospel there is\nlittle or none. So long as it is only a matter of preaching, there are\nin the world no more patient listeners than the Hindus. But as soon as a\ncase arises of one of their number abandoning the Caste customs and\ntraditionary worship, all their hostility is aroused, and the whole\ncommunity feels it a duty of patriotism to do its utmost to deprive that\nindividual of liberty of action, and to defend the vested rights of\nHinduism.\"\n\nFor the true Hindu is fervently Hindu. His religion \"may be described as\nbound up in the bundle of his everyday existence.\" His intense belief in\nit, and in his Caste, which is part of it, gives edge to the blade with\nwhich he fights the entrance of a new religion to his home. This new\nreligion he conceives of as something inherently antagonistic to his\nCaste, and as Caste is at every point connected with Hinduism, a thing\ninterwoven with it, as if Hinduism were the warp and Caste the woof of\nthe fabric of Indian life, we cannot say he is mistaken in regarding\nChristianity as a foe to be fought if he would continue a Caste Hindu.\nSo far, in South Indian religious history, we have no example on a large\nscale of anything approaching the Bramo Sam\u00e2j of the North. In the more\nconservative South there is almost no compromise with, and little\nassimilation of, the doctrine which makes all men one in Christ.\n\nTo return to the division--Classes and Masses--the Classes comprise\nmembers of what are known as the higher Castes, and in speaking of towns\nand villages where these dwell, and of converts from among them, the\nprefix \"Caste\" is sometimes used. Among the Classes we find women of\nmuch tenderness of feeling and a culture of their own, but their minds\nare narrowed by the petty lives they live, lives in many instances\nbounded by no wider horizon than thoughts concerning their husbands and\nchildren and jewels and curries, and always their next-door neighbour's\nsquabbles and the gossip of the place. Much of this gossip deals with\nmatters which are not of an elevating character. It takes us years to\nunderstand it, because most of the conversation is carried on in\nallusion or innuendo. But it is understood by the children. One of our\nconverts told me that she often prays for power to forget the words she\nheard, and the things she saw, and the games she played, when she was a\nlittle child in her mother's room.\n\n[Illustration: This old man is the Hindu village schoolmaster. The boys\nwrite on a strip of palm leaf with an iron style. These little lads come\nto us every Sunday afternoon. Will some one remember them?]\n\nThe young girls belonging to the higher Castes are kept in strict\nseclusion. During these formative years they are shut up within the\ncourtyard walls to the dwarfing life within, and as a result they get\ndwarfed, and lose in resourcefulness and independence of mind, and above\nall in courage; and this tells terribly in our work, making it so\ndifficult to persuade such a one to think for herself or dare to decide\nto believe. Such seclusion is not felt as imprisonment; a girl is\ntrained to regard it as the proper thing, and we never find any desire\namong those so secluded to break bounds and rush out into the free, open\nair. They do not feel it cramped as we should; it is their custom.\n\nIt is this custom which makes work among girls exceedingly slow and\nunresultful. They have to be reached one by one, and it takes many\nmonths of teaching before the mind opens enough to understand that it\nmay be free. The reaction of the physical upon the mental is never more\nclearly illustrated than in such cases. Sometimes it seems as if the\nmind _could_ not go out beyond the cramping walls; but when it has, by\nGod's illumination, received light enough to see into the darkness of\nthe soul, and the glory that waits to shine in on it, conceive of the\ntremendous upheaval, the shock of finding solid ground sink, as\ngradually or suddenly the conviction comes upon such a one that if she\nacts upon this new knowledge there is no place for her at home. She must\ngive everything up--_everything_!\n\nDo you wonder that few are found willing to \"follow so far\"? Do you\nwonder that our hearts nearly break sometimes, as we realize the cost\nfor them? Do you wonder that, knowing how each is set as a target for\nthe archer who shoots at souls, we fear to say much about them, lest we\nshould set the targets clearer in his sight?\n\nThe men and boys of the Classes live a more liberal life, and here you\nfind all varying shades of refinement. There is education, too, and a\ngreat respect for learning, and reverence for their classic literature\nand language, a language so ancient that we find certain Tamil words in\nthe Hebrew Scriptures, and so rich, that while \"nearly all the\nvernaculars of India have been greatly enriched from the Sanscrit,\nSanscrit has borrowed from Tamil.\" Almost every Caste village has its\nown little school, and every town has many, where the boys are taught\nreading, writing, poetry, and mental arithmetic.\n\nThere is not much education among the Masses. Here and there a man\nstands out who has fought his way through the ignorance of centuries, up\ninto the light of the knowledge of books. Such a man is greatly\nrespected by the whole community. The women have the same kindly nature\nas the women of the Classes, and there is surprising responsiveness\nsometimes, where one would least expect it. We have known a Tamil woman,\ndistinctly of the Masses, never secluded in her girlhood, but left to\nbloom as a wild flower in the field, as sensitive in spirit as any lady\nborn. The people are rough and rustic in their ways, but there are\ncertain laws observed which show a spirit of refinement latent among\nthem; there are customs which compare favourably with the customs of the\nmasses at home. As a whole, they are like the masses of other lands,\nwith good points and bad points in strong relief, and just the same\nsouls to be saved.\n\nConverts from among the Masses, as a general rule, are able to live at\nhome. There is persecution, but they are not turned out of village,\nstreet, or house. Often they come in groups, two or three families\ntogether perhaps, or a whole village led by its headman comes over.\nThere is less of the single one-by-one conversion and confession, though\nthere is an increasing number of such, and they are the best we have.\n\nIt is easy to understand how much more rapidly Christianity spreads\nunder such conditions than among those prevailing among the Classes; we\nsee it illustrated over and over again. For example, in a certain\nhigh-caste Hindu town some miles distant from our station on the Eastern\nside, a young man heard the Gospel preached at an open-air meeting; he\nbelieved, and confessed in baptism, thus breaking Caste and becoming an\nalien to his own people. He has never been able to live at home since,\nand so there has been no witness borne, no chance to let the life show\nout the love of God. The men of that household doubtless know something\nof the truth; they know enough, at least, to make them responsible for\nrefusing it; but what can the women know? Only that the son of the house\nhas disgraced his house and name; only that he has destroyed his Caste\nand broken his mother's heart. \"Shame upon him,\" they cry with one\nvoice, \"and curses on the cause of the shame, the 'Way' of Jesus\nChrist!\" It is useless to say they are merely women, and do not count;\nthey _do_ count. Their influence counts for a very great deal.\nTheoretically, women in India are nothing where religion is concerned;\npractically, they are the heart of the Hindu religion, as the men are\nits sinew and brain. There has never been a convert in that town since\nthat young man was banished from it, out-casted by his Caste.\n\nBut in a village only a few miles from that town a heathen lad believed,\nand was baptised, and returned home, not so welcome as before, but not\nconsidered too defiled to be reckoned a son of the household still. His\nfather is dead, his mother is a bitter opponent, but his brother has\ncome since, and within a stone's-throw another; and so it goes on: the\nlife has a chance to tell. Almost every time we have gone to that\nvillage we have found some ready for baptism, and though none of the\nmothers have been won, they witness to the change in the life of their\nsons. \"My boy's heart is as white as milk now,\" said one, who had stood\nby and seen that boy tied up and flogged for Christ's sake. They rarely\n\"change their religion,\" these staunch old souls; \"let me go where my\nhusband is; he would have none of it!\" said one, and nothing seems to\nmove them; but they let their boys live at home, and perhaps, even yet,\nthe love will break down their resistance. They are giving it a chance.\n\nI think this one illustration explains more than many words would the\ndifference between work among the Classes and the Masses, and why it is\nthat one form of work is so much more fruitful than the other.\n\nThe Masses must not be understood as a vast casteless Mass, out-casted\nby the Classes, for the Caste system runs down to the very lowest\nstratum, but their Caste rules allow of freer intercourse with others.\nWe may visit in their houses more freely, enter more freely into their\nthoughts, share more freely in the interests of their lives. We are less\noutside, as it were. But the main difference between the one set of\npeople and the other lies deeper; it is a difference underground. It\nworks out, however, into something all can see. Among the Masses, \"mass\nmovements\" are of common occurrence; among the Classes, with rare\nexceptions, each one must come out alone.\n\n[Illustration: A village woman of the Shanar Caste. The photo shows the\nbaby's ears being prepared for the jewels her mother hopes will fill\nthem by and by. Holes are made first and filled with cotton wool,\ngraduated leaden weights are added till the lobes are long enough.]\n\nThis is often forgotten by observers of the Indian Field from the home\nside. There are parts of that field where the labourers seem to be\nalways binding up sheaves and singing harvest songs; and from other\nparts come fewer songs, for the sheaves are fewer there, or it may be\nthere are none at all, only a few poor ears of corn, and they had to be\ngathered one by one, and they do not show in the field.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nThe Creed Chasm\n\n          \"I have had to deal in the same afternoon's work,\n          on the one hand with men of keen powers of\n          intellect, whose subtle reasoning made one look to\n          the foundations of one's own faith; and on the\n          other hand with ignorant crowds, whose conception\n          of sin was that of a cubit measure, and to whom\n          the terms 'faith' and 'love' were as absolutely\n          unknown as though they had been born and bred in\n          some undeveloped race of Anthropoids.\"\n                                 _Rev. T. Walker, India._\n\n\nIN writing about the Classes and the Masses of South India, one great\ndifference which does not exist at home should be explained. In England\na prince and a peasant may be divided by outward things--social\nposition, style of life, and the duty of life--but in all inward things\nthey may be one--one in faith, one in purpose, one in hope. The\ndifference which divides them is only accidental, external; and the\npeasant, perhaps being in advance of the prince in these verities of\nexistence, may be regarded by the prince as nobler than himself: there\nis no spiritual chasm between them. It is the same in the realm of\nscholarship. All true Christians, however learned or however unlearned,\nhold one and the same faith. But in India it is not so. The scholar\nwould smile at the faith of the simple villagers, he would even teach\nthem to believe that which he did not believe himself, holding that it\nwas more suitable for them, and he would marvel at your ignorance if\nyou confounded his creed with theirs; and yet in name both he and they\nare Hindus.\n\nSir Monier Williams explains the existence of this difference by\ndescribing the receptivity and all-comprehensiveness of Hinduism. \"It\nhas something to offer which is suited to all minds, its very strength\nlies in its infinite adaptability to the infinite diversity of human\ncharacters and human tendencies. It has its highly spiritual and\nabstract side, suited to the metaphysical philosopher; its practical and\nconcrete side, suited to the man of affairs and the man of the world;\nits \u00e6sthetic and ceremonial side, suited to the man of poetic feeling\nand imagination; its quiescent and contemplative side, suited to the man\nof peace and lover of seclusion. Nay, it holds out the right hand of\nbrotherhood to nature worshippers, demon worshippers, animal\nworshippers, tree worshippers, fetich worshippers. It does not scruple\nto permit the most grotesque forms of idolatry and the most degrading\nvarieties of superstition, and it is to this latter fact that yet\nanother remarkable peculiarity of Hinduism is mainly due--_namely, that\nin no other System of the world is the chasm more vast which separates\nthe religion of the higher, cultured, and thoughtful Classes, from that\nof the lower, uncultured, and unthinking Masses_.\"\n\nNaturally, therefore, work among them is different; one almost needs a\ndifferent vocabulary for each, and certainly one needs a different set\nof ideas. I remember how, in one afternoon's work, we saw the two types\nmost perfectly. In thinking of it, it is as if one saw again the quiet\nface of the old scholar against a background of confusion, the clear\ncalm features carved as in ivory, and set with a light upon it; chaotic\ndarkness behind. We were visiting his wife, when he came out from the\ninner room, and asked if he might talk with us. Usually to such a\nquestion I say no; we have come to the women, who are far the more\nneedy, the men can easily hear if they will. But he was such an old man,\nI felt I could not refuse; so he began to tell me what he held as truth,\nwhich was, in brief, that there are two sets of attachment, one outer,\none inner; that deliverance from these, and from Self, the Ego, which\nregards itself as the doer, constitutes Holiness; that is, that one must\nbe completely disentangled and completely self-less. This attained, the\nnext is Bliss, which is progressive. First comes existence in the same\nplace as God. Second, nearness to God. Third, likeness to God. Fourth,\nidentity with God. Then he quoted from a classic beloved by all the old\nTamil school, stanza after stanza, to prove the truth of the above,\nending with one which Dr. Pope has thus translated--\n\n  \"_Cling thou to that which He to Whom nought clings hath bid thee\n        cling,\n    Cling to that bond, to get thee free from every clinging thing._\"\n\nHe knew Sanscrit, and read me strange-sounding passages from a huge\nancient book, and then, in return for a booklet, he gave me one of Mrs.\nBesant's translations from the _Bhagavad Gita_.\n\nThe talk ended in my quoting what he could not deny was the true\nheart-cry of one of his greatest poets. \"I know nothing! nothing! I am\nin darkness! Lord, is there no light for me?\" And another, from the\npoem he had quoted, which asks the question, \"What is the use of\nknowledge, mere knowledge, if one does not draw near to the All-knowing,\nAll-pure One?\" And this led into what he would not listen to at first, a\nlittle reading from the Book of books, before whose light even these\nwonderful books pale as tapers in clear sunshine. The marvel of our\nBible never shows more marvellous than at such times, when you see it in\ndeed and in truth the Sword of the Spirit, and it _cuts_.\n\nThe old man asked me to come again, and I did, as the Iyer was away. He\noften got out of my depth, and I longed to know more; but I always found\nthe Bible had the very word he needed, if he would only take it. So far\nas I know, he did not, and I left him--to quote his own words, though\nnot spoken of himself, alas!--\"bewildered by numerous thoughts, meshed\nin the web of delusion.\"\n\nAs we left our old scholar, we came upon a thing wholly foolish and\nbrainless, animalism in force. It was the difference between the Classes\nand the Masses once for all painted in glare. A huge procession was\ntearing along the streets and roads, with all the usual uproar. They\nstopped when they got to a big thorn bush, and then danced round it,\ncarrying their idols raised on platforms, and borne by two or three\ndozen to each. We passed, singing as hard as ever we could \"Victory to\nJesus' Name! Victory!\" and when we got rather out of the stream,\nstopped, and sang most vigorously, till quite a little crowd gathered,\nand we had a chance to witness.\n\nIt was dark, and the flaming torches lit up the wildest, most barbaric\nbit of heathenism I have seen for a long time. The great black moving\nmass seemed like some hellish sea which had burst its bounds, and the\nhundreds of red-fire torches moving up and down upon it like lights in\ninfernal fishermen's boats, luring lost souls to their doom.\n\nAs we waited and spoke to those who would hear, a sudden rush from the\ncentre of things warned us to go; but before we could get out of the\nway, a rough lad with a thorn-branch torch stuck it right into the\nbandy, and all but set fire to us. He ran on with a laugh, and another\nfollowed with an idol, a hideous creature, red and white, which he also\npushed in upon us. Our bullocks trotted as fast as they could, and we\nsoon got out of it all, and looking back saw the great square of the\ndevil temple blazing with torches and firebrands, and heard the\ndrummings and clangings and yells which announced the arrival of the\nprocession.\n\nAll that night the riotous drumming continued, and, as one lay awake and\nlistened, one pictured the old scholar sitting in the cool night air on\nhis verandah, reading his ancient palm-leaf books by the light of the\nlittle lamp in the niche of his cottage wall.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nCaste viewed as a Doer\n\n          \"It is matter for especial notice that in every\n          department of applied science we have to deal with\n          the unseen. All forces, whether in physics,\n          mechanics, or electricity, are invisible.\"\n                                _Alexander Mackay, Africa._\n\n\nTHE division of the Tamil people, over fifteen million strong, into\nClasses and Masses, though convenient and simple, is far too simple to\nbe of value in giving an accurate idea of the matter as it is understood\nfrom within. As we said, it is only an outside view of things. A study\nof Caste from an Indian point of view is a study from which you rise\nbewildered.\n\nWhat is Caste? What is electricity? Lord Kelvin said, on the occasion of\nhis jubilee, that he knew no more of electric and magnetic force . . .\nthan he knew and tried to teach his students of natural philosophy fifty\nyears ago in his first session as Professor. We know that electricity\nexists, we are conscious of its presence in the phenomena of light,\nheat, sound; but we do not know what it is.\n\nNothing could more perfectly illustrate Caste. You cannot live long in a\nconservative part of India, in close contact with its people, without\nbeing conscious of its presence; if you come into conflict with it, it\nmanifests itself in a flash of opposition, hot rage of persecution, the\nroar of the tumult of the crowd. But try to define it, and you find you\ncannot do it. It is not merely birth, class, a code of rules, though it\nincludes all these. It is a force, an energy; there is spirit in it,\nessence, hidden as the invisible essence which we call electricity.\n\nLook at what it does. A few months ago a boy of twelve resolved to be a\nChristian. His clan, eight thousand strong, were enraged. There was a\nriot in the streets; in one house the poison cup was ready. Better death\nthan loss of Caste.\n\nIn another town a boy took his stand, and was baptised, thus crossing\nthe line that divides secret belief from open confession. His Caste men\ngot hold of him afterwards; next time he was seen he was a raving\nlunatic. The Caste was avenged.\n\nIt may be someone will wonder if these things are confined to one part\nof the field, so I quote from another, working in a neighbouring field,\nTamil, but not \"ours.\"\n\nShe tells of a poor low-caste woman who learned in her home, and\nbelieved. Her husband also believed, and both thought of becoming\nChristians. The village soothsayer warned them that their father's god\nwould be angry; they did not heed him, but went on, and suddenly their\nbaby died. This was too much for their faith then, and they both went\nback to idolatry.\n\nA few years afterwards their eldest child began to learn to read, and\nthe mother's faith revived. The soothsayer and her husband reminded her\nof the infant's fate, but she was brave, and let her child learn. Then\nher cow suddenly died. \"Did we not tell you so?\" they said, and for the\nmoment she was staggered; but she rallied, and only became more earnest\nin faith. So the soothsayer threatened worse.\n\n[Illustration: Cooking in a house of the Shanar Caste, always the most\naccessible of all Castes here, but this is a specially friendly house,\nor we should not have been allowed to take the photo. The small girl who\nis grinding curry stuff on the stone is the \"Imp\" of chapter xx.]\n\nThen a Caste meeting was called to determine what could be done with\nthis woman. The husband attended the meeting, and was treated to some\nrice and curry; before he reached home he was taken violently ill, and\nin three days he died. The relatives denounced the woman as the cause of\nher husband's death, took her only son from her, and entreated her to\nreturn to her father's gods before they should all be annihilated. They\ngave her \"two weeks to fast and mourn for her husband, then finding her\nmind as firmly fixed on Christ as before, they sent her to Burmah.\"\n\nThis happened recently. It is told without any effort to appeal to the\nsympathies of anyone, simply as a fact; a witness, every line of it, to\nthe power of Caste as a Doer. But there is something in the tale, told\nso terribly quietly, that makes one's heart burn with indignation at the\nunrelenting cruelty which would hound a poor woman down, and send her,\nbereft of all she loved, into exile, such as a foreign land would be to\none who knew only her own little village. And when you remember the\nCaste was \"low,\" which they took such infinite pains to guard, you can\njudge, perhaps, what the hate would be, the concentration of scorn and\nhate, if the Caste were higher or high.\n\nBut look at Caste in another way, in its power in the commonplace phases\nof life. For example, take a kitchen and cooking, and see how Caste\nrules there. For cooking is not vulgar work, or _infra dig._ in any\nsense, in India; all Caste women in good orthodox Hindu families\neither do their own or superintend the doing of it by younger members of\nthe same family or servants of the same Caste. \"We Europeans cannot\nunderstand the extent to which culinary operations may be associated\nwith religion. The kitchen in every Indian household is a kind of\nsanctuary or holy ground. . . . The mere glance of a man of inferior\nCaste makes the greatest delicacies uneatable, and if such a glance\nhappens to fall on the family supplies during the cooking operations,\nwhen the ceremonial purity of the water used is a matter of almost life\nand death to every member of the household, the whole repast has to be\nthrown away as if poisoned. The family is for that day dinnerless. Food\nthus contaminated would, if eaten, communicate a taint to the souls as\nwell as bodies of the eaters, a taint which could only be removed by\nlong and painful expiation.\" Thus far Sir Monier Williams (quoted as a\ngreater authority than any mere missionary!). Think of the defilement\nwhich would be contracted if a member of the household who had broken\nCaste in baptism took any part in the cooking. It would never be\nallowed. Such a woman could take no share in the family life. Her\npresence, her shadow, above all her touch, would be simply pollution.\nTherefore, and for many other reasons, her life at home is impossible,\nand the Hindu, without arguing about it, regards it as impossible. It\ndoes not enter into the scheme of life as laid down by the rules of his\nCaste. He never, if he is orthodox, contemplates it for a moment as a\nthing to be even desired.\n\nCooking and kitchen work may seem small (though it would not be easy for\neven the greatest to live without reference to it), so let us look out\non the world of trade, and see Caste again as a Doer there. If a\nmerchant becomes a Christian, no one will buy his goods; if he is a\nweaver, no one will buy his cloth; if he is a dyer, no one will buy his\nthread; if he is a jeweller, no one will employ him. If it is remembered\nthat every particular occupation in life represents a particular Caste,\nit will be easily understood how matters are complicated where converts\nfrom the great Trades Unions are concerned. Hence the need of Industrial\nMissions, and the fact that they exist.\n\nA man wants to become a Christian, say, from the blacksmith or carpenter\nCaste. As a Christian he loses his trade, and he has been trained to no\nother. His forefathers worked in iron or wood, and he cannot attempt to\nlearn other work. Let the Christians employ him, you say. Some do; but\nthe question involves other questions far too involved for discussion\nhere. And even if we discussed it, we should probably end where we\nbegan--facing a practical problem which no one can hope to solve while\nCaste is what it is.\n\nJust now this system is in full operation in the case of a lad of the\nbrassworker Caste. He is a thoughtful boy, and he has come to the\nconclusion that Christianity is the true religion; he would like to be a\nChristian; if the conditions were a little easier he would be enrolled\nas an inquirer to-morrow. But here is the difficulty. His father is not\nstrong, his mother and little sisters and brothers are his care; if he\nwere a Christian he could not support them; no one would sell him brass,\nno one would buy the vessels he makes. He knows only his inherited\ntrade. He can make fine water-pots, lamps, vases, and vessels of all\nsorts, nothing else. He is too old to learn any other trade; but\nsupposing such an arrangement could be made, who would support the\nfamily in the meantime? Perhaps we might do it; we certainly could not\nlet them starve; but it would not do to tell him so, or to hold out\nhopes of earthly help, till we know beyond a doubt that he is true. This\nis what is holding him back. He reads over and over again, \"He that\nloveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me,\" and then he\nlooks at his father and mother and the little children; and he reads the\nverse again, and he looks at them again. It is too hard.\n\nIt is easy enough to tell him that God would take care of them if he\nobeys. We do tell him so, but can we wonder at the boy for hesitating to\ntake a step which will, so far as he can see, take house and food and\nall they need from his mother and those little children?\n\nThese are some of the things which make work in India what is simply\ncalled difficult. We do not want to exaggerate. We know all lands have\ntheir difficulties, but when being a Christian means all this, over and\nabove what it means elsewhere, then the bonds which bind souls are\nvisibly strengthened, and the work can never be described as other than\nvery difficult.\n\nOr take the power of Caste in another direction--its callous cruelty. I\ngive one illustration from last year's life.\n\nI was visiting in the house where the old lady lives upon whom the\nafflatus fell. The first time we went there we saw a little lad of three\nor four, who seemed to be suffering with his eyes. He lay in a swinging\nbag hung from the roof, and cried piteously all the time we were there.\nNow, two months afterwards, there he lay crying still, only his cries\nwere so weary he had hardly strength to cry.\n\nThey lifted him out. I should not have known the child--the pretty face\ndrawn and full of pain, the little hands pressed over the burning eyes.\nOnly one who has had it knows the agony of ophthalmia. They told me he\nhad not slept, \"not even the measure of a rape-seed,\" for three months.\nNight and day he cried and cried; \"but he does not make much noise now,\"\nthey added. He couldn't, poor little lad!\n\nI begged them to take him to the hospital, twenty-five miles away, but\nthey said to go to a hospital was against their Caste. The child lay\nmoaning so pitifully it wrung my heart, and I pleaded and pleaded with\nthem to let me take him if they would not. Even if his sight could not\nbe saved, something could be done to ease the pain, I knew. But no, he\nmight die away from home, and that would disgrace their Caste.\n\n\"Then he is to suffer till he is blind or dead?\" and I felt half wild\nwith the cold cruelty of it.\n\n\"What can we do?\" they asked; \"can we destroy our Caste?\"\n\nOh, I did blaze out for a moment! I really could not help it. And then I\nknelt down among them all, just broken with the pity of it, and prayed\nwith all my heart and soul that the Good Shepherd would come and gather\nthe lamb in His arms!\n\nI wonder if you can bear to read it? I can hardly bear to write it. But\nyou have not seen the little wasted hands pressed over the eyes, and\nthen falling helplessly, too tired to hold up any longer; and you have\nnot heard those weak little wails--and to think it need not have been!\n\nBut we could do nothing. We were leaving the place next day, and even if\nwe could have helped him, they would not have let us. They had their own\ndoctor, they said; the case was in his hands. As we came away they\nexplained that one of the boy's distant relatives had died two years\nago, and that this was what prevented any of them leaving the house, as\nsome obscure Caste rule would be broken if they did; otherwise,\n_perhaps_ they might have been able to take him somewhere for change of\ntreatment. So there that child must lie in his pain, one more little\nliving sacrifice on the altar of Caste.\n\nThe last thing I heard them say as we left the house was, \"Cry softly,\nor we'll put more medicine in!\" And the last thing I saw was the\ntightening of the little hands over the poor shut eyes, as he tried to\nstifle his sobs and \"cry softly.\" _This told one what the \"medicine\"\nmeant to him._ One of the things they had put in was raw pepper mixed\nwith alum.\n\nIs not Caste a cruel thing? Those women were not heartless, but they\nwould rather see that baby die in torture by inches, than dim with one\nbreath the lustre of their brazen escutcheon of Caste!\n\n[Illustration: \"I determined not to laugh!\" That was what she said when\nshe saw it, and she was fairly satisfied with the result of her efforts.\nThe jewels are gold, the seeley a rich red. A woman of this type makes a\nfine picture,--the strong intelligent face, the perfect arms and hands,\nthe glistening gold on the clear brown, and the graceful dress\nharmonising so perfectly with the colour of eyes and hair. The one\ndeformity is the ear, cut so as to hold the jewels, which are so heavy\nthat one wonders the stretched lobes do not break.]\n\nThis is one glimpse of one phase of a power which is only a name at\nhome. It is its weakest phase; for the hold of Caste upon the body is as\nnothing to the hold it has upon the mind and soul. It yields to the\ntouch of pain sometimes, as our medical missionaries know; but it\ntightens again too often when the need for relief is past. It is\nunspeakably strong, unmercifully cruel, and yet it would seem as though\nthe very blood of the people ran red with it. _It is in them_, part of\ntheir very being.\n\nThis, then, is Caste viewed as a Doer. It does strange things, hard\nthings, things most cruel. It is, all who fight it are agreed, the\nstrongest foe to the Gospel of Christ on the Hindu fields of South\nIndia.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nPetra\n\n          \"This work in India . . . is one of the most crucial\n          tests the Church of Christ has ever been put to.\n          The people you think to measure your forces\n          against are such as the giant races of Canaan are\n          nothing to.\"\n                                _Bishop French, India and Arabia._\n\n\nIT was very hot, and we were tired, and the friendly voice calling \"Come\nin! come in! Oh, come and rest!\" was a welcome sound, and we went in.\n\nShe was a dear old friend of mine, the only real friend I have in that\nancient Hindu town. Her house is always open to us, the upper room\nalways empty--or said to be so--when we are needing a rest. But she is a\nHindu of the Hindus, and though so enlightened that for love's sake she\ntouches us freely, taking our hands in hers, and even kissing us, after\nwe go there is a general purification; every scrap of clothing worn\nwhile we were in the house is carefully washed before sunset.\n\nShe insisted now upon feeding us, called for plantains and sugar, broke\nup the plantains, dabbed the pulp in the sugar, and commanded us to eat.\nThen she sat down satisfied, and was photographed.\n\nThis town, a little ancient Hindu town, is two hours journey from\nDohnavur. There are thirty-eight stone temples and shrines in and around\nit, and five hundred altars. No one has counted the number of idols;\nthere are two hundred under a single tree near one of the smaller\nshrines. Each of the larger temples has its attendant temple-women;\nthere are two hundred recognised Servants of the gods, and two hundred\nannual festivals.\n\nWonderful sums are being worked just now concerning the progress of\nChristianity in India. A favourite sum is stated thus: the number of\nChristians has increased during the last decade at a certain ratio.\nGiven the continuance of this uniform rate of increase, it will follow\nthat within a computable period India will be a Christian land. One flaw\nin this method of calculation is that it takes for granted that\nBrahmans, high-caste Hindus, and Mohammedans will be Christianised at\nthe same rate of progress as prevails at present among the depressed\nclasses.\n\nThere are sums less frequently stated. Here in the heart of this Hindu\ntown they come with force; one such sum worked out carefully shows that,\naccording to the present rate of advance, it will be more than twenty\nthousand years before the Hindu towns of this district are even\nnominally Christian. Another still more startling gives us this result:\naccording to the laws which govern statistics, thirteen hundred thousand\nyears must pass before the Brahmans in this one South Indian district\nare Christianised. And if the sum is worked so as to cover all India,\nthe result is quite as staggering to faith based on statistics.\n\nPraise God, this is not His arithmetic! It is a purely human invention.\nWe believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life; we believe in\nGod, even God Who calleth the things that are not as though they were:\ntherefore these sums prove nothing. But if such sums are worked at all,\nthey ought to be worked on both sides, and not only on the side which\nyields the most encouraging results.\n\nTwo of us spent a morning in the Brahman street. In these old Hindu\ntowns the Brahman street is built round the temple, and in large towns\nthis street is a thoroughfare, and we are allowed in. The women stood in\nthe shadow of the cool little dark verandahs, and we stood out in the\nsun and tried to make friends with them. Then some Mission College boys\nsaw us and felt ashamed that we should stand in that blazing heat, and\nthey offered us a verandah; but the women instantly cleared off, and the\nmen came, and the boys besought us under their breath to say nothing\nabout our religion.\n\nWe spoke for a few minutes, throwing our whole soul into the chance. We\nfelt that our words were as feathers floating against rocks; but we\nwitnessed, and they listened till, as one of them remarked, it was time\nto go for their noontide bathe, and we knew they wished us to go. We\nwent then, and found a wall at the head of the Brahman street, and we\nstood in its shadow and tried again. Crowds of men and lads gathered\nabout us, but our College boys stood by our side and helped to quiet\nthem. \"Now you see,\" they said to us, as they walked with us down the\nouter street, \"how quite impossible for us is Christianity.\"\n\nIt is good sometimes to take time to take in the might of the foe we\nfight. That evening two of us had a quiet few minutes under the temple\nwalls. Those great walls, reaching so high above us, stretching so far\nbeyond us, seemed a type of the wall Satan has built round these souls.\n\nWe could touch this visible wall, press against it, feel its solid\nstrength. Run hard against it, and you would be hurt, you might fall\nback bleeding; it would not have yielded one inch.\n\nAnd the other invisible wall? Oh, we can touch it too! Spirit-touch is a\nreal thing. And so is spirit-pain. But the wall, it still stands strong.\n\nIt was moonlight. We had walked all round the great temple square, down\nthe silent Brahman streets, and we had stood in the pillared hall, and\nlooked across to the open door, and seen the light on the shrine.\n\nNow we were out in God's clean light, looking up at the mass of the\ntower, as it rose pitch-black against the sky. And we felt how small we\nwere.\n\nThen the influences of the place began to take hold of us. It was not\nonly masonry; it was mystery. \"The Sovereigns of this present Darkness\"\nwere there.\n\nHow futile all of earth seemed then, against those tremendous forces and\npowers. What toy-swords seemed all weapons of the flesh. Praise God for\nthe Holy Ghost!\n\nWhile we were sitting there a Brahman came to see what we were doing,\nand we told him some of our thoughts. He asked us then if we would care\nto hear his. We told him, gladly. He pointed up to the temple tower.\n\"That is my first step to God.\" We listened, and he unfolded, thought by\nthought, that strange old V\u00e9dic philosophy, which holds that God, being\nomnipresent, reveals Himself in various ways, in visible forms in\nincarnations, or in spirit. The visible-form method of revelation is\nthe lowest; it is only, as it were, the first of a series of steps which\nlead up to the highest, intelligent adoration of and absorption into the\nOne Supreme Spirit. \"We are only little children yet. We take this small\nfirst step, it crumbles beneath us as we rise to the next, and so step\nby step we rise from the visible to the invisible, from matter to\nspirit--to God. But,\" he added courteously, \"as my faith is good for me,\nso, doubtless, you find yours for you.\"\n\nNext morning we went down to the river and had talks with the people who\npassed on their way to the town. It was all so pretty in the early\nmorning light. Men were washing their bullocks, and children were\nscampering in and out of the water. Farther downstream the women were\nbathing their babies and polishing their brass water-vessels. Trees met\noverhead, but the light broke through in places and made yellow patches\non the water. Out in one of those reaches of yellow a girl stood bending\nto fill her vessel; she wore the common crimson of the South, but the\nlight struck it, and struck the shining brass as she swung it up under\nher arm, and made her into a picture as she stood in her clinging wet\nred things against the brown and green of water and wood. Everywhere we\nlooked there was something beautiful to look at, and all about us was\nthe sound of voices and laughter, and the musical splashing of water;\nthen, as we enjoyed it all, we saw this:\n\nUnder an ancient tree fifteen men were walking slowly round and round,\nfollowing the course of the sun. Under the tree there were numbers of\nidols, and piles of oleander and jessamin wreaths, brought fresh that\nmorning. The men were elderly, fine-looking men; they were wholly\nengrossed in what they were doing. It was no foolish farce to them; it\nwas reality.\n\nThere is something in the sight of this ordinary, evident dethronement\nof our God which stirs one to one's inmost soul. We could not look at\nit.\n\nAgain and again we have gone to that town, but to-day those men go round\nthat tree, and to-day that town is a fort unwon.\n\nPetra, I have called it; the word stands for many a town walled in as\nthat one is. In Keith's _Evidence of Prophecy_ there is a map of Petra,\nthe old strong city of Edom, and in studying it a light fell upon\nDavid's question concerning it, and his own triumphant answer, \"Who will\nlead me into the strong city? Who will bring me into Edom? Wilt not\nThou, O God?\" for the map shows the mountains all round except at the\nEast, where they break into a single narrow passage, the one way in.\nThere was only one way in, but there _was_ that one way in!\n\nHere is a town walled up to heaven by walls of Caste and bigotry, but\nthere must be one way in. Here is a soul walled all round by utter\nindifference and pride, but there must be one way in.\n\n\"Who will lead me into the strong city? Who will bring me into Edom?\n=Wilt not Thou, O God?=\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nDeath by Disuse\n\n          \"There is a strong tendency to look upon the\n          Atonement of Christ as possessing some quality by\n          virtue of which God can excuse and overlook sin in\n          the Christian, a readiness to look upon sinning as\n          the inevitable accompaniment of human nature\n          'until death do us part,' and to look upon\n          Christianity as a substitute for rather than a\n          cause of personal holiness of life.\"\n                                _Rev. I. W. Charlton, India._\n\n\n          \"From many things I have heard I fancy many at\n          home think of the mission as a sort of little\n          heaven upon earth, but when one looks under the\n          surface there is much to sadden one. . . . Oh,\n          friends, much prayer is needed! Many of the agents\n          know apparently nothing about conversion.\n\n          \"You may not like my writing so plainly, but\n          sometimes it seems as if only the bright side were\n          given, and one feels that if God's praying people\n          at home understood things more as they really are\n          . . . more prayer for an outpouring of the Holy\n          Spirit on our agents and converts would ascend to\n          God. . . . We do long to see all our pastors and\n          agents really converted men, men of prayer and\n          faith, who, knowing that they themselves are\n          saved, long with a great longing to see the\n          heathen round them brought out of darkness into\n          His light, and the Christians who form their\n          congregations, earnest converted men and women.\"\n                                _A. J. Carr, India._\n\n\n          \"Fifty added to the Church sounds fine at home,\n          but if only five of them are genuine what will it\n          profit in the Great Day?\"\n                                _David Livingstone, Africa._\n\n\n          \"Oh for the Fire to set the whole alight, and melt\n          us all into one mighty Holy-Ghost Church!\"\n                                _Minnie Apperson, China._\n\n\nTHE lamps were being lighted, the drums beaten, the cymbals struck, and\nthe horns blown for evening pujah in all the larger temples and shrines\nof the \"Strong City,\" when we turned out of it, and, crossing the\nstream that divides the two places, went to the Christian hamlet, which\nby contrast at that moment seemed like a little corner of the garden of\nthe Lord. Behind was the heathenish clash and clang of every possible\ndiscord, and here the steady ringing of the bell for evening service;\nbehind was all that ever was meant by the \"mystery of iniquity,\" and\nhere the purity and peace of Christianity. This is how it struck me at\nfirst; and even now, after a spell of work in the heart of heathendom,\nChristendom, or the bit of it lying alongside, is beautiful by contrast.\nThere you have naked death, death unadorned, the corpse exhibited; here,\nif there is a corpse, at least it is decently dressed. And yet that\nevening it was forced upon me that death is death wherever found and\nhowever carefully covered.\n\n[Illustration: \"I do feel so shy!\" she was just on the point of saying\nto me, by the way of appeal to be released, when the camera clicked and\nshe was caught. Widows do not wear jewels, as a rule, among the Hindus\nof the higher Castes, but Christians do as they like. She is a village\nwoman of fairly good position.]\n\nThe first of the Christians to welcome us was a bright-looking\nwidow--this is her photograph. We soon made friends. She told us she had\nbeen \"born in the Way\"; her grandfather joined it, and none of the\nfamily had gone back, so she was sure that all was right. We were not so\nsure, and we tried to find out if she knew the difference between\njoining the Way and coming to Christ. This was only a poor little\ncountry hamlet, but everywhere we have travelled, among educated and\nuneducated alike, we have found much confusion of thought upon this\nsubject.\n\n\"God knows my heart,\" she said, \"God hears my prayers. If I see a bad\ndream in the night, I pray to God, and putting a Bible under my head, I\nsleep in perfect peace.\" Could anything be more conclusive?\n\nThere were numbers of other proofs forthcoming: If your grandfather gave\nsix lamps to the church, value three and a half rupees each (the\nlamps are hanging to-day, and bear witness to the fact); if your father\nnever failed to pay his yearly dues, besides regular Sunday collections\n(his name is in the church report, and how much he gave is printed); if\nyou freely help the poor, and give them paddy on Christmas Day (quite a\nsackful of it); if you never offer to demons (no, not when your children\nare sick, and the other faithless Christians advise you); if you never\ntie on the cylinder (a charm frequently though covertly worn by purely\nnominal Christians); and finally, if you have been baptised and\nconfirmed, and \"without a break join the Night-supper,\" surely no one\ncan reasonably doubt that you are a Christian of a very proper sort? As\nto questions about change of heart, and chronic indulgence in sins, such\nas lying--who in this wicked world lives without lying? And when it\npleases God to do it He will change your heart.\n\nWe took the evening meeting for the villagers, who meanwhile had\ngathered and were listening with approval. Privacy, as we understand it,\nis a thing unknown in India. \"That is right,\" they remarked cheerfully;\n\"give her plenty of good advice!\" And we all trooped into the\nprayer-room.\n\nOnce in there, everyone put on a sort of church expression, and each one\ntook his or her accustomed seat in decorous silence. The little\nschool-children sat in rows in front on the mats with arms demurely\nfolded, and sparkling eyes fixed solemnly; the grown-up people sat on\ntheir mats on either side behind, and we sat on ours facing them. We\nbegan with a chorus, which the children picked up quickly and shouted\nlustily, the grown-ups joining in with more reserve; and then we got to\nwork.\n\nBlessing spoke. She had once been a nominal Christian, and she knew\nexactly where these people were, and how they looked at things. Her\nheart was greatly moved as she spoke, and the tears were in her eyes,\nfor she knew none of these friends had the joy of conscious salvation,\nand she told me afterwards she had thirst and hunger for them. But they\nlistened unimpressed. Then we had prayer and a quiet time; sometimes the\nSpirit works most in quiet, and we rose expectantly; but there was no\nsign of life.\n\nAfter the meeting was over they gathered round us again. They are always\nso loving and friendly in these little villages; but they could not\nunderstand what it was that troubled us. Were they not all _Christians_?\n\nShortly afterwards they came, as their kindly custom is, to bring us\nfruit and wreaths of flowers on New Year's Day. I missed my first friend\nof that evening, and asked for her. \"That widow you talked to?\" said the\nold catechist, \"three days ago fever seized her, and\"--He broke off and\nlooked up. Then I longed to hear how she had died, but no one could tell\nme anything. Oh, the curtain of silence that covers the passing of\nsouls!\n\nWe went soon afterwards to the village, sure that at last the people\nwould be stirred; for she had been a leader among the women, and her\ncall, even in this land of sudden calls, had been very sudden. But we\ndid not find it had affected anyone. They all referred to her in the\nchastened tone adopted upon such occasions, and, sighing, reminded each\nother that God was merciful, and she had always been, up to the measure\nof her ability, a very good woman.\n\nWe felt as if we were standing with each one of those people separately,\nin the one little standing space we were sure of, before that curtain,\nand we spoke with them as you speak with those whom you know you may\nnever see again on this side of it. But they looked at us, and wondered\nwhat was the matter with us. Were they not _Christians_? Did they not\nbelieve in God? Did they not pray regularly night and morning for\nforgiveness, protection, and blessing? So they could not understand.\n\nWas it that the power to understand had been withered up within them?\nWas the soul God gave them dead--\"sentenced to death by disuse\"? Dead\nthey are in apathy and ignorance and putrefying customs, and the false\nsecurity that comes from adherence to the Christian creed without vital\nconnection with Christ. These poor Christians are dead.\n\n\"Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you that God should\nraise the dead?\" Lord, it is not a thing incredible. Thou hast done it\nbefore. Oh, do it again. Do it soon!\n\nI have told you how much we need your help for the work among the\nheathen; but often we feel we need it almost as much for the work among\nthe Christians. Over and over again it is told, but still it is hardly\nunderstood, that the Christians need to be converted; that the vast\nmajority are not converted; that statistics may mislead, and do not\nstand for Eternity work; that many a pastor, catechist, teacher, has a\nname to live, but is dead; that the Church is very dead as a\nwhole--thank God for every exception. We do not say this thoughtlessly;\nthe words are a grief to write. We humble ourselves that it is so, and\ntake to ourselves the blame. It is true that the corpse of the dead\nChurch is dressed, just as it is at home, only here it is even more\ndressed; and because the spirit of the land is intensely religious, its\ngrave-clothes are vestments. But dressed death is still death.\n\nThis will come as a shock to those who have read stories of this or that\nnative Christian, and generalising from these stories, picture the\nChurch as a company of saints. God has His saints in India,[1] men and\nwomen hidden away in quiet places out of sight, and some few out in the\nfront; but the cry of our hearts is for more. So we tell you the truth\nabout things as they are, though we know it will not be acceptable, for\nthe best is the thing that is best liked at home; so the best is most\nfrequently written.\n\nThis may seem to cross out what was said before, about the darker side\nof the truth being often told. It does not cross it out: read through\nthe magazines and reports, and you will find truth-revealing sentences,\nwhich show facts to those who have eyes to see; but though this is so,\nall will admit that the sanguine view, as it is called, is by far the\nmost in evidence, for the sanguine man is by far the most popular\nwriter, and so is more pressed to write. \"People will read what is\nbuoyant and bright; the more of that sort we have the better,\" wrote a\nMission secretary out in the field not long ago, to a missionary who did\nnot feel free to write in quite that way. Those who, to quote another\nsecretary, \"are afraid of writing at all, for fear of telling\nlies\"--excuse the energetic language; I am quoting, not\ninventing--naturally write much less, and so the best gets known.\n\nThis is nobody's fault exactly. The home authorities print for the most\npart what is sent to them. They even call attention sometimes to the\nless cheerful view of things; and if, yielding occasionally to the\npressure which is brought to bear upon them by a public which loves to\nhear what it likes, they take the sting out of some strong paragraph by\nadding an editorial \"Nevertheless,\" is it very astonishing?\n\nDo you think we are writing like this because we are discouraged? No, we\nare not discouraged, except when sometimes we fear lest you should grow\nweary in prayer before the answer comes. This India is God's India. This\nwork is His. Oh, join with us then, as we join with all our dear Indian\nbrothers and sisters who are alive in the Lord, in waiting upon Him in\nthat intensest form of waiting _which waits on till the answer comes_;\njoin with us as we pray to the mighty God of revivals, \"O Lord, revive\nThy work! Revive Thy work in the midst of the years! In the midst of the\nyears make known!\"\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[1] See Appendix, p. 303.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nWhat Happened\n\n          \"Some years ago England was stirred through and\n          through by revelations which were made as to the\n          'Bitter Cry' of wronged womanhood. In India the\n          bitter cry is far more bitter, but it is stifled\n          and smothered by the cruel gag of Caste. Orthodox\n          Hindus would rather see their girls betrayed,\n          tortured, murdered, than suffer them to break\n          through the trammels of Caste.\"\n                                   _Rev. T. Walker, India._\n\n\nTHERE is another ancient town near Dohnavur, and in that town another\ntemple, and round the temple the usual Brahman square. In one of the\nstreets of this square we saw the girl whose face looks out at you. It\nstruck us as a typical face, not beautiful as many are, but\ncharacteristic in the latent power of eyes and brow, a face full of\npossibilities.\n\n[Illustration: Here is one who might be a queen. What she _may_ be is\nvery different. She is a Brahman girl; all her people are Hindus. She\nhas never even felt a desire, or seen any one in her town who felt a\ndesire, to \"fall into the pit of Christianity.\"]\n\nWe were rarely able to get anything we specially wanted, but we got\nthis. I look at it now, and wonder how it will develop as the soul\nbehind it shapes and grows. That child is enfolded in influences which\nward off the touch of the grace of life.\n\nWe saw numbers of women that day, but only at the distance of a street\nbreadth; they would not come nearer, for the town is still a Petra to\nus, we are waiting to be led in.\n\nBut if we were able to get in enough to take a photograph, surely we\nwere \"in\" enough to preach the Gospel? Why not stop and there speak\nof more important matters? What was to hinder _then_?\n\nOnly this: in that town they have heard of converts coming out, and\nbreaking Caste in baptism, and they have made a law that we (with whom\nthey know some of these converts are) shall never be allowed to speak to\nany of their women. That hindered us there. But even supposing we had\nbeen free to speak, as we trust we shall be soon, and supposing she had\nwanted to hear, the barriers which lie between such a child and\nconfession of Christ are so many and so great that when, as now, one\nwants to tell you about them, one hardly knows how to do it. Words seem\nlike little feeble shadows of some grim rock, like little feeble shadows\nof the grasses growing on it, rather than of _it_, in its solidity; or,\nto revert to the old thought, all one can say is just pointing to the\nDust as evidence of the Actual.\n\n\"What is to hinder high-caste women from being baptised, and living as\nChristians in their own homes?\" The question was asked by an Englishman,\na winter visitor, who, being interested in Missions, was gathering\nimpressions. We told him no high-caste woman would be allowed to live as\nan open Christian in her own home; and we told him of some who, only\nbecause they were suspected of inclining towards Christianity, had been\ncaused to disappear. \"What do you suppose happened to them?\" he asked,\nand we told him.\n\nWe were talking in the pleasant drawing-room of an Indian Hotel. Our\nfriend smiled, and assured us we must be mistaken. We were under the\nEnglish Government; such things could not be possible. We looked round\nthe quiet room, with its air of English comfort and English safety; we\nlooked at the quiet faces, faces that had never looked at fear, and we\nhardly wondered that they could not understand.\n\nThen in a moment, even as they talked, we were far away in another room,\nlooking at other faces, faces unquiet, very full of fear. We knew that\nall round us, for streets and streets, there were only the foes of our\nLord; we knew that a cry that was raised for help would be drowned long\nbefore it could escape through those many streets to the great English\nhouse outside. There were policemen, you say. But policemen in India are\nnot as at home. _Policemen can be bribed._\n\nAnd now we are looking in again. There is a very dark inner room, no\nwindow, one small door; the walls are solid, so is the door. If you\ncried in there, who would hear?\n\nAnd now we are listening--someone is speaking: \"Once there was one; she\ncared for your God. She was buried into the wall in there, and that was\nthe end of her.\" . . .\n\nBut we are back in the drawing-room, hearing them tell us these things\ncould never be. . . . Three years passed, and a girl came for refuge to\nus. She loved her people well; she would never have come to us had they\nlet her live as a Christian at home. But no, \"Rather than that she shall\nburn,\" they said. We were doubtful about her age, and we feared we\nshould have to give her up if the case came on in the courts. And if we\nhad to give her up? We looked at the gentle, trustful face, and we could\nnot bear the thought; and yet, according to our friends, the Government\nmade all safe.\n\nAbout that time a paper came to the house; names, dates, means of\nidentification, all were given. This was the story in brief. A young\nBrahman girl in another South Indian town wanted to be a Christian, and\nconfessed Christ at home. She earnestly wished to be baptised, but she\nwas too young then, and waited, learning steadily and continuing\nfaithful, though everything was done that could be done to turn her from\nher purpose. She was betrothed against her will to her cousin, and\nforbidden to have anything to do with the Christians. \"She was never\nallowed to go out alone, and was practically a prisoner.\"\n\nFor three years that child held on, witnessing steadfastly at home, and\nletting it be clearly known that she was and would be a Christian. A\nHindu ceremony of importance in the family was held in her grandfather's\nhouse, and she refused to go. This brought things to a crisis. Her\npeople appointed a council of five to investigate the matter. \"She\nmaintained a glorious witness before them all,\" says the missionary;\n\"declared boldly that she was a Christian, and intended to join us; and\nwhen challenged about the Bible, she held it out, and read it to the\nassembled people.\"\n\nFor a time it seemed as if she had won the day, but fresh attempts were\nmade upon her constancy by certain religious bigots of the town. They\noffered her jewels--that failed; tried to get her to turn Mussulman,\nthat being less disgraceful than to be a Christian; and last and worst,\ntried to stain that white soul black--but, thank God! still they failed.\n\nAt last the waiting time was over; she was of age to be baptised, and\nshe wrote to tell her missionary friend about it. He sent her books to\nread, and promised to let her know within two days what he could arrange\nto do. \"Her letter was dated from her grandfather's house,\" the\nmissionary writes, \"to which she said she had been sent, and put in a\nroom alone. On the following day, hearing a rumour of her death, I went\nto N.'s house, and there found her body, outside the door. I caused it\nto be seized by the police, and the post-mortem has revealed the fact\nthat the poor child was poisoned by arsenic. Bribes have been freely\nused and atrocious lies have been told, and the net result of all the\npolice inquiries, so far, is that no charge can be brought against\nanyone.\"\n\nLast year we met one of the missionaries from this Mission, on the\nhills, and we asked him if anyone had been convicted. He said no one had\nbeen convicted, \"the Caste had seen to that.\"\n\nHere, then, is a statement of facts, divested of all emotion or\nsensationalism. A child is shut up in a room alone, and poisoned; when\nshe is dead, her body is thrown outside the door. It was found. _There\nhave been bodies which have not been found_; but we are under the\nBritish Government--nothing can have happened to them!\n\nThe British Government does much, but it cannot do everything. It is\nnotorious in India that false witnesses can be bought at so much a head,\naccording to the nature of witness required. Bribery and corruption are\nnot mere names here, but facts, most difficult for any straightforward\nofficial to trace and track and deal with. We know, and everyone knows,\nthat the White Man's Government, though strong enough to win and rule\nthis million-peopled Empire, is weak as a white child when it stands\noutside the door of an Indian house, and wants to know what has gone on\ninside, or proposes to regulate what shall go on. It cannot do it. The\nthought is vain.\n\n\"Why not have her put under surveillance?\" asked a friend, a military\nman, about a certain girl who wanted to be a Christian; as if such\nsurveillance were practicable, or ever could be, under such conditions\nas obtain in high-caste Hindu and Mohammedan circles, except in places\ndirectly under the eye of Government. We know there are houses where, at\nan hour's notice, any kind and any strength of poison can be prepared\nand administered: quick poison to kill within a few minutes; slow\npoisons that undermine the constitution, and do their work so safely\nthat no one can find it out; brain poisons, worse than either, and\nperhaps more commonly used, as they are as effective and much less\ndangerous. But we could not prove what we know, and knowledge without\nproof is, legally speaking, valueless.\n\nAnd yet we know these things, we have heard \"a cry of tears,\" we have\nheard \"a cry of blood\"--\n\n          \"Tears and blood have a cry that pierces heaven\n             Through all its hallelujah swells of mirth;\n           God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet\n                        He doth not forget.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\"Simply Murdered\"\n\n          \"'Agonia'--that word so often on St. Paul's lips,\n          what did it mean? Did it not just mean the\n          thousand wearinesses . . . and deeper, the\n          strivings, the travailings, the bitter\n          disappointments, the 'deaths oft' of a\n          missionary's life?\"\n                                _Rev. Robert Stewart, China._\n\n\nTHERE are worse things than martyrdom. There are some who are \"simply\nmurdered.\" There is one who belongs to a Caste which more than any other\nis considered tolerant and safe. Men converts from this Caste can live\nat home, and if a husband and wife believe, they may continue living in\ntheir own house, among the heathen. And yet this is what happened to a\ngirl because it was known that she wanted to be a Christian.\n\nFirst persecution. Treasure, as her name may be translated, had learnt\nas a child in the little mission school, and when we went to her village\nshe responded, and took her stand. She refused to take part in a Hindu\nceremony. She was beaten, at first slightly, then severely. This failed,\nso they sent her out of our reach to a heathen village miles away. This\nalso failed, and she was brought home, and for some months went steadily\non, reading and learning when she could, and all the time brightly\nwitnessing. She was a joy to us.\n\nShe was very anxious to come out and be baptised, but her age was the\ndifficulty. When a convert comes, the first thing to be done is to let\nthe police authorities know. They send a constable, who takes down the\nconvert's deposition, which is then forwarded to headquarters. One of\nthe first questions concerns age. In some cases a medical certificate is\ndemanded, and the girl's fate turns on that; if we can get one for over\nsixteen we are safe from prosecution in the Criminal Courts, but\neighteen is the safest age, as the Civil Courts, if the case were to\nproceed, would force us to give her up if she were under eighteen. The\ndifficulty of proving the age, unless the girl is evidently well over\nit, is very serious. The medical certificate usually takes off a year\nfrom what we have every reason to believe is the true age.\n\nOne other proof remains--the horoscope. This is a Hindu document written\non a palm leaf at the birth of the child; but it is always carefully\nkept by the head of the family, and so, as a rule, unobtainable. When a\ncase comes on in Court a false horoscope may be produced by the\nrelatives; this was done in a recent case tried in our Courts, so we\ncannot count upon that. In this girl's case we got the Government\nregisters searched for birth-records of her village, but all such\nregisters we found had been destroyed; none were kept of births sixteen\nyears back. So, though she believed herself to be, and we believed her\nto be, and the Christians who had known her all her life were sure she\nwas, \"about sixteen,\" we knew it could not be proved. She was a very\nslight girl, delicate and small for her age. This was against her, and\nthere were other reasons against her coming just then. She had to wait.\n\nI shall never forget the day I had to tell her so. She could not\nunderstand it. She knew that all the higher Castes had threatened to\ncombine, and back up her father in a lawsuit, if she became a Christian;\nbut she thought it would be quite enough if she stood up before the\njudge, and said she knew she was of age, and she wanted to come to us.\n\"I will not be afraid of the people,\" she pleaded, \"I will stand up\nstraight before them all, and speak without any fear!\"\n\nI remember how the tears filled her eyes as I explained things; it was\nso hard for her to understand that we had no power whatever to protect\nher. It would be worse for her if she came and had to be given up. She\nwas fully sensible of this, but \"Would God let them take me away? Would\nHe not take care of me?\" she asked.\n\nI suppose it is right to obey the laws. They are, on whole, righteous\nlaws, made in the defence of these very girls. It would never do if\nanyone could decoy away a mere child from her parents or natural\nguardians. But the unrighteous thing, as it seems to us, is that the\nwhole burden of proof lies upon us, and that in these country villages\nno facilities such as Government registers of birth are to be had, by\nwhich we could hope legally to prove a point about which we are morally\nsure. We feel that as the burden of proof rests upon us, surely\nfacilities should be obtainable by which we could find out a girl's age\nbefore she comes, so that we might know whether or not we might legally\nprotect her. Still more strongly we feel it is strange justice which\ndecrees that though a child of twelve may be legally held competent to\nundertake the responsibilities of wifehood, six years more must pass\nbefore she may be legally held free to obey her conscience. Free! She is\nnever legally free! A widow may be legally free; a wife in India, never!\nHardly a single Caste wife in all this Empire would be found in the\nlittle band of open Christians to-day, if the missionary concerned had\nnot risked more than can be told here, and put God's law before man's.\nBut oh, the number who have been turned back!\n\nOne stops, forces the words down--they come too hot and fast. There are\nreasons. As I write, a young wife dear to us is lying bruised and\nunconscious on the floor of the inner room of a Hindu house. Her\nhusband, encouraged by her own mother, set himself to make her conform\nto a certain Caste custom. It was idolatrous. She refused. He beat her\nthen, blow upon blow, till she fell senseless. They brought her round\nand began again. There is no satisfactory redress. She is his wife. She\nis not free to be a Christian. He knows it. Her relations know it. She\nknows it, poor child.\n\nO God, forgive us if we are too hot, too sore at heart, for easy\npleasantness! And, God, raise up in India Christian statesmen who will\ninquire into this matter, and refuse to be blindfolded and deceived. His\nlaws and ours clash somewhere; the question is, where?\n\nTo return to Treasure, we left her waiting to come. A Christian teacher\nlived next door, and Treasure used to slip in sometimes, as the two\ncourtyards adjoined. We had put up a text on the wall for her: \"Fear\nnot: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art\nMine.\" This was her special text, and she looked at it now; and then she\ngrew braver, and promised to be patient and try to win her mother, who\nwas bitterly opposed.\n\nBut oh, how I remember the wistfulness of her face as I went out; and\none's very heart can feel again the stab of pain, like a knife cutting\ndeep, as I left her--to her fate.\n\nYou have seen a tree standing stark and bare, a bleak black thing, on a\nsunny day against a sky of blue. You have looked at it, fascinated by\nthe silent horror of it, a distorted cinder, not a tree, and someone\ntells you it was struck in the last great thunderstorm.\n\nNext time we saw Treasure she was like that. What happened between, so\nfar as it is known, was this. They tried to persuade her, they tried to\ncoerce her; she witnessed to Jesus, and never faltered, though once they\ndragged her out of the house by her hair, and holding her down against\nthe wall, struck her hard with a leather strap. One of the Christians\nsaw it, and heard the poor tortured child cry out, \"I do not fear! I do\nnot fear! It will only send me to Jesus!\"\n\nThen they tried threats. \"We will take you out to the lake at night, and\ncut you in little pieces, and throw you into it.\" She fully believed\nthem, but even so, we hear she did not flinch.\n\nThen they did their worst to her.\n\nIt was a Sunday morning. The Saturday evening before she had managed to\nsee the teacher. She told her hurriedly how one had come, \"a bridegroom\"\nshe called him, a student from a Mission College; he was telling her\nall sorts of things--that Christianity was an exploded religion; and how\na great and learned woman (Mrs. Besant) had exposed the missionaries and\ntheir ways, so that no thinking people had any excuse for being deceived\nby them.\n\nThen she added earnestly, \"It is the devil. Do pray for me. They want me\nto marry him secretly! Oh, I must go to the Missie Ammal!\" And if we had\nonly known, we would have risked anything, any breach of the law of the\nland, to save her from a breach of the law of heaven! For all this talk,\nbetween an Indian girl of good repute and her prospective husband, is\nutterly foreign to what is considered right in Old India. It in itself\nmeant danger. But we knew nothing, and next day, all that Sunday, she\nwas shut up, and no one knows what happened to her. On Monday she was\nseen again; but changed, so utterly changed!\n\nWe heard nothing of this till the following Wednesday. The Christians\nwere honestly concerned, but the Tamil is ever casual, and they saw no\nreason for distressing us with bad news sooner than could be helped.\n\nAs soon as we heard, I sent two of the Sisters who knew her best, to try\nand see her if possible. They managed to see her for two or three\nminutes, but found her hopelessly hard. Every bit of care was gone. She\nlaughed in a queer, strained way, they said. It was no use my trying to\nsee her. But I determined to see her. I cannot go over it all again, it\nis like tearing the skin off a wound; so the letter written at the time\nmay tell the rest of it.\n\n\"On Saturday I went. I went straight to the teacher's house, and sent\noff the bandy at once, and by God's special arrangement got in\nunnoticed. For hours we sat in the little inner room, waiting; we could\nhear her voice in the courtyard outside--a hard, changed voice. The\nteacher tried to get her in, but no, she would not come. Oh, how we held\non to God! I could not bear to go till I had seen her.\n\n\"At last we had to go. The cart came back for us, thus proclaiming where\nwe were, and the last human chance was gone. And then, just then, like\none walking in a dream, Treasure wandered in and stood, startled.\n\n\"She did not know we were there. We were kneeling with our backs to the\ndoor. I turned and saw her.\n\n\"I cannot write about the next five minutes; I thought I realised\nsomething of what Satan could do in this land, but I knew nothing about\nit. Oh, when will Jesus come and end it all?\n\n\"Just once it seemed as if the spell were broken. My arms were round\nher, though she had shrunk away at first, and tried to push me from her;\nshe was quiet now, and seemed to understand a little how one cared. She\nknelt down with me, and covered her eyes as if in prayer, while I poured\nout my soul for her, and then we were all very still, and the Lord\nseemed very near. But she rose, unmoved, and looked at us. We were all\nquite broken down, and she smiled in a strange, hard, foolish way--that\nwas all.\n\n\"The cause no one knows. There are only two possible explanations. One is\npoison. There is some sort of mind-bewildering medicine which it is\nknown is given in such cases. This is the view held by the Christians\non the spot. One of them says her cousin was dealt with in this way. He\nwas keen to be a Christian, and was shut up for a day, and came\nout--dead. Dead, she means, to all which before had been life to him.\n\n\"The other, and worse, is sin. Has she been forced into some sin which\nto one so enlightened as she is must mean an awful darkness, the hiding\nof God's face?\n\n\"I cannot tell you how bright this dear child was. Up till that Saturday\nevening her faith never wavered; she was a living sign to all the town\nthat the Lord is God. The heathen are triumphant now.\"\n\nI have told you plainly what has happened. God's Truth needs no\npainting. I leave it with you. Do you believe it is perfectly true? Then\nwhat are you going to do?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nWanted, Volunteers\n\n          \"We have a great and imposing War Office, but a\n          very small army. . . . While vast continents are\n          shrouded in almost utter darkness, and hundreds of\n          millions suffer the horrors of heathenism or of\n          Islam, the burden of proof lies upon you to show\n          that the circumstances in which God has placed you\n          were meant by Him to keep you out of the foreign\n          mission field.\"\n                                _Ion Keith Falconer, Arabia._\n\n\nIN one of the addresses delivered at the International Student\nMissionary Conference, London, in January 1900, a South Indian\nmissionary spoke of the Brahman race as \"the brain of India.\" \"Their\nnumbers are comparatively small--between ten and fifteen millions--but\nthough numerically few--only five per cent. of the Hindu\npopulation--they hold all that population in the hollow of their hand.\nThey occupy every position of influence in the land. They are the\nstatesmen and politicians, the judges, magistrates, Government\nofficials, and clerks of every grade. If there is any position\nconferring influence over their fellow-men, it will be held by a\nBrahman. Moreover, they are a sacred Caste, admitted by the people to be\ngods upon earth--a rank supposed to have been attained by worth\nmaintained through many transmigrations.\"\n\n[Illustration: A typical Brahman face. It is keener than the photo\nshows, and has the cynical expression so many Brahman faces have. Such a\nman is hard to win.]\n\nAmong the Petras of this district is a little old-fashioned country\ntown, held in strength by the Brahmans. No convert has ever come from\nthat town, and the town boasts that none ever shall. None of the houses\nare open yet to teaching, or even visiting, but we are making friends,\nand hope for an entrance soon. We spent a morning out in the street;\nthey had no objection to that, and as the free young Brahmans gathered\nround us, or stood for a moment against a wall to be \"caught,\" it was\ndifficult, even for us who knew it, to realise how bound they were.\n\"Bound, who should conquer; slaves, who should be kings.\" Bound, body\nand soul, in a bondage perfectly incomprehensible to the English mind.\n\nAfterwards, when we saw the photographs, we recalled one and another\nwho, while they were young students like these, dared to desire to\nescape from their bondage; but back they were dragged, and the chains\nwere riveted faster than ever, and every link was tested again, and\nhammered down hard.\n\nWe wanted to be sure of our facts about each of them, that these facts\nmay further answer that smile which assures us things are not as we\nimagine; so the Iyer wrote to a brother missionary who had known these\nlads well, and asked him to tell what happened to each of them. This\nmorning the answer to that letter came, and was handed to me with \"I\nhardly like to give it to you, but it tells the truth about what goes\non.\" These boys were students in our C.M.S. College.\n\nThe first one mentioned in the letter is a young Brahman who confessed\nChrist in baptism, and bravely withstood the tremendous opposition\nraised by his friends, who came in crowds for many weeks, and tried by\nevery argument to persuade him to return to Hinduism; but he preached\nChrist to them. They brought his young wife, and she tore her hair and\nwailed, and besought him not to condemn her to the shame of a widow's\nlife. This was the hardest of all to withstand; he turned to the\nmissionary and said, \"Oh my father, take her away! She is tearing out my\nheart!\"\n\n[Illustration: A typical Brahman student. The marks on the forehead are\nmade of bright red, yellow, and white paste, and represents the\nfootprint of the god Vishnu. These Brahmans are Vaishnavites.]\n\nThen came the baptism day of another Brahman student, his friend, who\nprevious to this had been seized by his relatives, shut up and starved,\nand then fed with poisoned food; but the poison was not strong enough to\nkill, and he had escaped, and was now safe and ready for baptism.\n\nIt was remembered afterwards how the friend of the newly baptised stood\nand rejoiced, and praised God. Then, the baptism over, fearing no danger\nin open day, he went to the tank to bathe. He was never seen again.\n\nWhat happened exactly no one knows. It is thought that men hired to\nwatch him seized their opportunity, and carried him off. What they did\nthen has never been told. Contradictory reports about the boy have\nreached the missionaries. One, that he is still holding on, another that\nhe is now a priest in one of the great Saivite temples of South India.\nWhich is true, God knows.\n\nBut we are under the English Government. Could nothing be done? One of\nhis near relatives is the present Judge of the High Court of one of our\nIndian cities. And among the crowd of Brahmans who came during those\nweeks, there were influential men, graduates of colleges, members of the\nlegal profession--a favourite profession in India. And yet this thing\nwas done.\n\nThere was another; the means used to get hold of him cannot be written\nhere. That is the difficulty which fronts us when we try to tell the\ntruth as it really is. It simply cannot be told. The Dust may be\nshown--or a little of it; the whole of the Actual, never.\n\nThere were others near the Kingdom, but it is the same story over again.\nThey were all spirited away from the college; the missionary writes,\n\"_it makes one's heart sick to think of them, and the hellish means\ninvented to turn them from Christ_.\" These are not the words of\nsentimental imagination. They are the words of a man who gives evidence\nas a witness. But even a witness may _feel_.\n\nHe tells us of one, a bright, happy fellow, he says he was, whose\nfriends made no objection to his returning home after his baptism, and\nhe returned, thinking he would be able to live as a Christian with his\nwife. They drugged his food, then what they did has to be covered with\nsilence again. . . . They did their worst. . . . When he awoke from that\nnightmare of sin, he sought out his missionary friend. Some of the\nHindus even, \"ashamed of the vile means used\" to entice him and destroy\nhim, would have wished him to be received again as a Christian, but his\nspirit was broken. He said he could not disgrace the cause of Christ by\ncoming back; he would go away where he would not be known. He left his\nwife, and went. He has never been heard of since.\n\nOur comrade tells of another, and again, in telling it, we have to leave\nit half untold. This one was eager to confess Christ in baptism; he was\na student at college then, and very keen. His father knew of his son's\ndesire, and he did what few Hindu fathers would do, _he turned his home\ninto a hell, in order to ruin his boy_. The infernal plot succeeded. God\nonly knows how far the soul is responsible when the mind is dazed and\nthen inflamed by those fearful drugs. But we do know that the soul He\nmeant should rise and shine, sinks, weighted down by the unspeakable\nshame of some awful memory darkened, as by some dark dye that has\nstained it through and through.\n\nI think of others as I write: one was a boy we knew well, a splendid,\nearnest lad, keen to witness for Christ. He told us one evening how he\nhad been delivered from those who were plotting his destruction. For\nseveral months after his decision to be a Christian, he lived at home\nand tried to win his people; but they were incensed against him for even\nthinking of breaking Caste, and would not listen to him. Still he\nwaited, and witnessed to them, not fearing anything. Then one day,\nsuddenly some men rushed into the room where he was sitting, seized and\nbound and gagged him. They forced something into his mouth as he lay on\nthe floor at their mercy; he feared it was a drug, but it was only some\ndisgusting stuff which, to a Hindu, meant unutterable defilement. Then\nthey left him bound alone, and at night he managed to escape. A few\nmonths after he told us this, we heard he had been seized again, and\nthis time \"drugged and done for.\"\n\nIn South India baptism does not prevent the Caste from using every\npossible means to get the convert back; once back, certain ceremonies\nare performed, after which he is regarded as purified, and reinstated in\nhis Caste. The policy of the whole Caste confederation is this: get him\nback unbaptised if you can, but anyhow _get him back_. Two Brahman lads\nbelonging to different parts of this district decided for Christ, went\nthrough all that is involved in open confession, and were baptised. One\nof the two was sent North for safety; his people traced him, followed\nhim, turned up unexpectedly at a wayside station in Central India, and\nforced him back to his home in the South. Once there, they took their\nown measures to keep him. The other lad was sent to Madras. The Brahmans\nfound out where he was, broke into the house at night, overpowered the\nboy's protectors, and carried him off. They too did what seemed good to\nthem there, and they too succeeded. No one outside could interfere. The\nCaste guards its own concerns.\n\n\"O Lord Jesus Christ!\" wrote one, a Hindu still, \"who knowest us to be\nplaced in such danger that it is as if we were within some magical\ncircle drawn round us, and Satan standing with his wand without, keeping\nus in terror, break the spell of Satan, and set us free to serve Thee!\"\n\nAll this may be easy reading to those who are far away from the place\nwhere it happened. Distance has a way of softening too distinct an\noutline; but it is not easy to write, it comes so close to us. Why write\nit, then? We write it because it seems to us it should be more fully\nknown, so that men and women who know our God, and the secret of how to\nlay hold upon Him, should lay hold, and hold on for the winning of the\nCastes for Christ.\n\n[Illustration: Another Brahman, much duller than the last. This and the\ntwo preceding photographs are perfect as a study of three types of\nBrahmanhood as we have it in Southern India--keen, thoughtful, dull.]\n\nSurely the very hardness of an enterprise, the very fact that it is what\na soldier would call a forlorn hope, is in itself a call and a claim\nstronger than any put forth by something easier. The soldier does not\ngive in because the hope is \"forlorn.\" It is a _hope_, be it ever so\ndesperate. He volunteers for it, and win or not, he fights.\n\nThere is that in this enterprise which may mark it out as \"forlorn.\" For\nages the race has broken one of nature's laws with blind persistency,\nand the result is a certain lack of moral fibre, grit, \"tone.\" No\nseparate individual is responsible for this, harsh judgments are\nentirely out of place; but the fact remains that it is so, and it must\nbe taken into account in dealing with the Brahmans and several of the\nupper Castes of India. Side by side with this element of weakness there\nis, in apparent contradiction, that stubborn element of strength known\nas the Caste spirit. This spirit is seen in all I have shown you of what\nhappens when a convert comes. It is as if all the million wills of the\nmillion Caste men and women were condensed into one single Will, a\nconcentration of essence of Will not comparable with anything known at\nhome.\n\nLook at this face--it is a photographed fact. Does it not show you an\nabsence of that \"something\" which nerves to endurance, stimulates to\ndare? Then listen to this:--A Christian man lies dead. The way to the\ncemetery lies through the Brahman street, in the chief town of this\nDistrict; there is no other way. The Brahman street is a thoroughfare,\nit cannot be closed to traffic, but the Brahmans refuse point blank to\nallow that dead man to be carried through. The Bishop expostulates. No;\nhe was a Christian, he shall not be carried through. Time is passing. In\nthe Tropics the dead must be buried quickly. The Bishop appeals to the\nCollector (Representative of Government here). The Collector gives an\norder. The Brahmans refuse to obey. He orders out a company of soldiers.\nThe Brahmans mass on the housetops and stone the soldiers. The order is\ngiven to fire. Then, and not till then, the Christians may carry out\ntheir dead; and later on the Brahmans carry out theirs. This happened\nsome years ago, and outwardly times have changed since then in that\nparticular town. But the spirit that it shows is in possession to this\nday, and as small things show great, so this street scene shows the\npresence of that \"something\" which intensifies the difficulty of winning\nthe Castes for Christ. Each unit is weak in itself, but in combination,\nstrong.\n\n\"A forlorn hope\" we have called the attempt to do what we are told to\ndo. The word is a misnomer; with our Captain as our Leader no hope is\never \"forlorn\"! But our Leader calls for men, men like the brave of old\nwho jeopardised their lives unto the death in the high places of the\nfield, in the day that they came to the help of the Lord, to the help of\nthe Lord against the mighty. A jeopardised life may be lost.\n\nChrist our Captain is calling for volunteers; here are the terms:\n\"Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake and the Gospel's the same\nshall find it.\" The teachers' life may seem \"lost\" who lives for his\ncollege boys; the student's life may seem \"lost\" who spends hour after\nhour through the long hot days in quiet talks in the house. Be it so,\nfor it may mean that. But the life lost for His Name's sake, the same\nshall be found again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nIf it is so very important. . . ?\n\n          \"Let us for a moment imagine what would have\n          happened on the Galilean hillside, when our Lord\n          fed the five thousand, if the Apostles had acted\n          as some act now. The twelve would be going\n          backwards, helping the first rank over and over\n          again, and leaving the back rows unsupplied. Let\n          us suppose one of them, say Andrew, venturing to\n          say to his brother Simon Peter, 'Ought we all to\n          be feeding the front row? Ought we not to divide,\n          and some of us go to the back rows?' Then suppose\n          Peter replying, 'Oh no; don't you see these front\n          people are so hungry? They have not had half\n          enough yet; besides, they are nearest to us, so we\n          are more responsible for them.' Then, if Andrew\n          resumes his appeal, suppose Peter going on to say,\n          'Very well; you are quite right. You go and feed\n          all those back rows; but I can't spare anyone\n          else. I and the other ten of us have more than we\n          can do here.'\n\n          \"Once more, suppose Andrew persuades Philip to go\n          with him; then, perhaps, Matthew will cry out and\n          say, 'Why, they're all going to those farther\n          rows! Is no one to be left to these needy people\n          in front?'\n\n          \"Let me ask the members of Congress, Do you\n          recognise these sentences at all?\"\n                  _Eugene Stock, at Shrewsbury Church Congress._\n\n\nIT was only a common thing. A girl, very ill, and in terrible pain, who\nturned to us for help. We could do nothing for her. Her people resorted\nto heathen rites. They prepared her to meet the fierce god they thought\nwas waiting to snatch her away.\n\nWe went again and again, but she suffered so that one could not say\nmuch, it did not seem any use. The last time we went, the crisis had\npassed; she would live, they told us with joy. They were eager to\nlisten to us now. \"Tell us all about your Way!\" clamoured the women,\nspeaking together, and very loud. \"Tell us the news from beginning to\nend!\" But, alas! they could take in very little. One whole new Truth was\ntoo much for them. \"Never mind,\" they consoled us, \"come every day, and\nthen what you say will take hold of our hearts.\" And I had to tell them\nwe were leaving that evening, and could not come \"every day.\"\n\n[Illustration: Is not the contrast good? The old woman so intelligent,\nthe baby so inane. She made a picture sitting there, in her crimson\nedged seeley, with her dark old face showing up against the darker wall.\nShe is one of the many we have missed by coming so slowly and so late.\n\"How can I change now?\" she says.]\n\nThe girl turned her patient face towards us. She had smiled at the Name\nof Jesus, and it seemed as if down in the depths of her weakness she had\nlistened when we spoke before, and tried to understand. Now she looked\npuzzled and troubled, and the women all asked, \"Why?\"\n\nThere, in that crowded, hot little room, a sense of the unequal\ndistribution of the Bread of Life came over us. The front rows of the\nFive Thousand are getting the loaves and the fishes over and over again,\ntill it seems as though they have to be bribed and besought to accept\nthem, while the back rows are almost forgotten. _Is it that we are so\nbusy with the front rows, which we can see, that we have no time for the\nback rows out of sight?_ But is it fair? Is it what Jesus our Master\nintended? _Can it be really called fair?_\n\nThe women looked very reproachful. Then one of them said, looking up at\nme, \"You say this is very important. If it is so very important, why did\nyou not come before? You say you will come back again if you can, but\nhow can we be sure that nothing will happen to stop you? We are, some of\nus, very old; we may die before you come back. This going away is not\ngood.\" And again and again she repeated, \"_If it is so very important,\nwhy did you not come before?_\"\n\nDon't think that the question meant more than it did. It was only a\nhuman expression of wonder; it was not a real desire after God. But the\nforce of the question was stronger far than the poor old questioner\nknew; it appealed to our very hearts.\n\nThe people saw we were greatly moved, and they pressed closer round us\nto comfort us, and one dear old grandmother put her arms round me, and\nstroked my face with her wrinkled old hand, and said, \"Don't be\ntroubled; we will worship your God. We will worship Him just as we\nworship our own. _Now_, will you go away glad?\"\n\nThe dear old woman was really in earnest, she wanted so much to comfort\nus. But her voice seemed to mingle with voices from the homeland; and\nanother--we heard another--the Voice I had heard on the\nprecipice-edge--the voice of our brothers', our sisters' blood calling\nunto God from the ground.\n\nFriends, are these women real to you? Look at this photo of one of them.\nSurely it was not just a happy chance which brought out the detail so\nperfectly. Look at the thoughtful, fine old face. Can you look at it and\nsay, \"Yes, I am on my way to the Light, and you are on your way to the\nDark. At least, this is what I profess to believe. And I am sorry for\nyou, but this is all I can do for you; I can be very sorry for you. I\nknow that this will not show you the way from the Dark, where you are,\nto the Light, where I am. To show you the way I must go to you, or,\nperhaps, send you one whom I want for myself, or do without something I\nwish to have; and this, of course, is impossible. It might be done if I\nloved God enough--_but I love myself better than God or you_.\"\n\n[Illustration: A Brahman widow, the only Brahman woman who would let us\ntake her photo. Brahman women wear their seeleys fastened in a peculiar\nway, and never cut their ears. Brahman widows are always shaven, and\nwear no jewels. This one is a muscular character, strong and resolute,\nan ordinary looking woman, but there must be an under-the-surface life\nwhich does not show. A widow's fate is described in one word here,\n\"_accursed_.\"]\n\nYou would not say such a thing, I know, but \"Whoso hath this world's\ngood, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his compassion\nfrom him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nThe Call Intensified\n\n          \"Sometimes the men and boys will not go away and\n          let us talk to the women; in such cases I find\n          silent prayer the best refuge. In other places the\n          people welcome you, but will listen to anything\n          but the Doctrine of Jesus Christ; and this is\n          harder to bear than anything else I know.\"\n                                    _Anna Gordon, China._\n\n          \"Let the people that are at home not care only to\n          hear about successes; we must train them that they\n          take an interest in the struggle.\"\n                        _Rev. A. Schreiber, Sumatra and India._\n\n          \"It is a fight making its demands upon physical,\n          mental, and spiritual powers, and there are many\n          adversaries. The dead weight of heathenism, the\n          little appreciation of one's object and purpose,\n          and the actual, vigorous opposition of the powers\n          of darkness, make it a real fight, and only men of\n          grit, of courage, devotion, and infinite patience\n          and perseverance, will win.\n\n          \"_Have I painted a discouraging picture? Am I\n          frightening good men who might have volunteered\n          and done well? I think not. I think the right sort\n          of men, those who ought to volunteer, will be\n          attracted rather than repelled by the\n          difficulties._\"\n                                _Rev. J. Lampard, India._\n\n\nWE got this photograph that day in December which we spent in the\nfriendly Brahman street. \"There is not another woman in the town who\nwould stand for you like that!\" said the men, as she came forward, and,\nwithout a thought of posing, stood against the wall for a moment, and\nlooked at the camera straight. Most of the women were afraid even to\nglance at it, but she was not afraid. She would not stay to talk to us,\nhowever, but marched off with the same resolute air. For Brahman widows\nas a whole are by no means an approachable race. Sometimes we find one\nwho will open out to us, and let us tell her of the Comfort wherewith we\nare comforted; but oftener we find them hard, or hardening rapidly.\n\n[Illustration: There is nothing to say about it except what is said in\nthe chapter. There is nothing much to look at in a Brahman street. But\nthat single simple street scene represents forces which control two\nhundred and seven million minds.]\n\nIt is too soon to write about any of those who have listened during the\npast few months, but we put this photo in to remind you to remember\nthose who are freer than most women in India to follow the Lord Jesus\nChrist, if only they would let His love have a chance of drawing them.\nWe have been to the various towns in this and the upper curve of the\nmountains, but we have not reached the lower curve towns, or half of the\nmany villages scattered close under the mountains, and, except when we\nwent out in camp, we have not of course touched those farther afield.\n\nThere are only five working afternoons in a week, for Saturday is given\nup to other things, and Sunday belongs to the Christians; and when any\ninterest is shown, we return again to the same village, which delays us,\nbut is certainly worth while. Then there are interruptions--sometimes on\nthe Hindu side; festivals, for instance, when no woman has time to hear;\nand on ours, and on the weather's, so to speak, when great heat or great\nrain make outdoor work impossible. Theoretically, itinerating is\ndelightfully rapid; but practically, as every itinerating missionary\nknows, it is quite slow. There are other things to be done; those\nalready brought in have to be taught and trained and mothered, and\nmuch time has to be spent in waiting upon God for more; so that, looking\nback, we seem to have done very little for the thousands about us, and\nnow we must return to the eastern side of the district, for some of the\nboy converts are there at school, and there may be fruit to gather in\nafter last year's sowing.\n\nBut I look up from my writing and see a stretch of mountain range thirty\nmiles long, and this range stretches unbroken for a thousand miles to\nthe North. I know how little is being done on the plains below, and I\nwonder when God's people will awake, and understand that there is yet\nvery much land to be possessed, and arise and possess it. Look down this\nmountain strip with me; there are towns where work is being done, but it\nneeds supervision, and the missionaries are too few to do it thoroughly.\nThere are towns and numbers of villages where nothing is even attempted,\nexcept that once in two years, if possible, the Men's Itinerant Band\ncomes round; but that does not reach the women well, and even if it did,\nhow much would you know of Jesus if you only heard a parable or a\nmiracle or a few facts from His life or a few points of His doctrine\n_once in two years_? I do not want to write touching appeals, or to draw\none worker from anywhere else,--it would be a joy to know that God used\nthese letters to help to send someone to China, or anywhere where He has\nneed of His workers,--but I cannot help wondering, as I look round this\nbit of the field, how it is that the workers are still so few.\n\nWe have found the people in the towns and villages willing to let us do\nwhat we call \"verandah work\" when they will not let us into their\nhouses. Verandah work, like open-air preaching, is unsatisfactory as\nregards the women, but it is better than nothing.\n\nWe spent an afternoon in the street this photo shows. It is a\nthoroughfare, and so we were not forbidden; but even so, we always ask\npermission before we walk down it. Such an ordinary, commonplace street\nit looks to you; there is no architectural grandeur to awe the beholder,\nand impress him with the majesty of Brahmanhood; and yet that street,\nand every street like it, is a very Petra to us, for it is walled round\nby walls higher and stronger than the temple walls round which it is\nbuilt; walls built, as it seems, of some crystal rock, imperceptible\ntill you come up to it, and even then not visible, only recognisable as\nsomething you cannot get through.\n\nOur first day there was encouraging. We began at the far end of the\nstreet, and after some persuasion the men agreed to move to one side,\nand let us have the other for any women who would come. Nothing\nparticular happened, but we count a day good if we get a single good\nchance to speak in quietness to the women.\n\nNext time we went it was not so good. They had heard in the meantime all\nabout us, and that we had girls from the higher Castes with us, and this\nwas terrible in their eyes. For the Brahman, from his lofty position of\nabsolute supremacy, holds in very small account the souls of those he\ncalls low-caste; but if any from the middle distance (he would not\ndescribe them as near himself, only dangerously nearer than the others)\n\"fall into the pit of the Christian religion,\" he thinks it is time to\nbegin to take care that the Power which took such effect on them should\nnot have a chance to perform upon him, and, above all, upon his\nwomankind. So that day we were politely informed that no one had time to\nlisten, and, when some women wanted to come, a muscular widow chased\nthem off. We looked longingly back at those dear Brahman women, but\nappeal was useless, so we went.\n\nIn one of the other Castes, the Caste represented by this row of men, we\nfound more friendliness; they let us sit on one end of the narrow\nverandah fronts, and quite a number of women clustered about on the\nother. They were greatly afraid of defilement there, and would not come\ntoo close. And they had the strangest ideas about us. They were sure we\nhad a powder which, if they inhaled it, would compel them to be\nChristians. They had heard that we went round \"calling children,\" that\nis, beckoning them, and drawing them to follow after us, and that we\nwere paid so much a head for converts. It takes a whole afternoon\nsometimes simply to disabuse their minds of such misconceptions.\n\nI heard this commercial aspect of things explained by one who apparently\nknew. A kindly old Brahman woman had allowed us to sit on her doorstep\nout of the sun, and bit by bit we had worked our way to the end of the\nverandah, which was a little more shaded, where a girl was sitting alone\nwho seemed to want to hear. The old woman sat down behind us, and then\nan old man came up, and the two began to talk. Said the old woman to the\nold man, \"She is trying to make us join her Way.\" (I had carefully\nabstained from any such expression.) The old man agreed that such was\nmy probable object. \"What will she get if we join? Do you know?\" \"Oh\nyes; do I not know! For one of us a thousand rupees, and for a Vellalar\nfive hundred. She even gets something for a low-caste child, but she\ngets a whole thousand for one of us!\"\n\n[Illustration: A Shepherd-Caste house of the better sort. We would give\na great deal to get into this house, but so far it is closed. You can\nsee straight through to the back courtyard where the women are, where we\nmay not go. The old man is typical of his class, a thoughtful man of\nrefinement of mind, but wholly indifferent to the teaching.]\n\nThey were both very interested in this conversation, and so indeed was\nI, and I thought I would further enlighten them, when the old woman got\nup in a hurry and hobbled into the house. After that, whenever we\npassed, she used to shake her head at us, and say, \"Chee, chee!\" No\npersuasions could ever induce her to let us sit on her doorstep again.\nWe were clearly after that thousand rupees, and she would have none of\nus.\n\nIn the same village there was a little Brahman child who often tried to\nspeak to us, but never was allowed. One day she risked capture and its\nconsequences, and ran across the narrow stream which divides the Brahman\nstreet from the village, and spoke to one of our Band in a hurried\nlittle whisper. \"Oh, I do want to hear about Jesus!\" And she told how\nshe had learnt at school in her own town, and then she had been sent to\nher mother-in-law's house in this jungle village, \"that one,\" pointing\nto a house where they never had smiles for us; but her mother-in-law\nobjected to the preaching, and had threatened to throw her down the well\nif she listened to us. Just then a hard voice called her, and she flew.\nNext time we went to that village she was shut up somewhere inside.\n\nOften as one passes one sees shy faces looking out from behind the\nlittle pillars which support the verandahs, and one longs to get\nnearer. But it does not do to make any advance unless one is sure of\none's ground. It only results in a sudden startled scurrying into the\nhouse, and you cannot follow them there. To try to do so would be more\nthan rude--it would be considered pollution.\n\nOnly yesterday we were trying to get to the women who live in the great\nhouse of the village behind the bungalow. This photo shows you the door\nwe stood facing for ten minutes or more, first waiting, and then\npleading with the old mother-in-law to let us in to the little dark room\nin which you may see a woman's form hiding behind the door.\n\nBut we could not go to them, and they could not come to us. There were\nonly two narrow rooms between, but the second of the two had brass\nwater-vessels in it. If we had gone in, those vessels and the water in\nthem would have been defiled. The women were not allowed to come out,\nthe mother-in-law saw well to that; never was one more vigilant. She\nstood like a great fat hen at the door, with her white widow's skirts\noutspread like wings, and guarded her chickens effectually. \"Go! go by\nthe way you have come!\" was all she had to say to us.\n\nThe friendly old man of the house was out. A friendly young man came in\nwith some rice, and began to measure it. He invited us to sit down,\nwhich we did, and he measured the rice in little iron tumblers, counting\naloud as he did so in a sing-song chant. He was pleased that we should\nwatch him, and it was interesting to watch, for he did it exactly as the\nverse describes, pressing the rice down, shaking the iron measure,\nheaping up the rice till it was running over, and yet counting this\nabundant tumblerful only as one; then he handed the basketful of rice\nto a child who stood waiting, and asked what he could do for us. We told\nhim how much we wanted to see the women of the house, but he did not\nrelish the idea of tackling the vigorous old mother-in-law, so we gave\nup the attempt, and went out. As we passed the wall at the back which\nencloses the women's quarters, we saw a girl look over the wall as if\nshe wanted to speak to us, but she was instantly pulled back by that\ntyrannical dame, and a dog came jumping over, barking most furiously,\nwhich set a dozen more yelping all about us, and so escorted we retired.\n\nThis house is in the Village of the Merchant, not five minutes from our\ngate, but the women in it are far enough from any chance of hearing. The\nmen let us in that day to take the photograph, and we hoped thereby to\nmake friends; but though there are six families living there (for the\nhouse is large; the photograph only shows one end of the verandah which\nruns down its whole length), we have never been once allowed to speak to\none of the women; the mother-in-law of all the six takes care we never\nget the chance. One of the children, a dear little girl, follows us\noutside sometimes, but she is only seven, and not very courageous; so,\nthough she evidently picks up some of the choruses we sing, she is\nafraid of being seen listening, and never gets much at a time.\n\nThese are some of the practical difficulties in the way of reaching the\nwomen. There are others. Suppose you do get in, or, what is more\nprobable in pioneer work, suppose you get a verandah, even then it is\nnot plain sailing by any means. For, first of all, it is dangerously\nhot. The sun beats down on the street or courtyard to within a foot or\ntwo of the stone ledge you are sitting upon, and strikes up. Reflected\nglare means fever, so you try to edge a little farther out of it without\ndisturbing anyone's feelings, explaining minutely why you are doing it,\nlest they should think your design is to covertly touch them; and then,\ntheir confidence won so far, you begin perhaps with the wordless book,\nor a lyric set to an Indian tune, or a picture of some parable--never of\nour Lord--or, oftener still, we find the best way is to open our Bibles,\nfor they all respect a Sacred Book, and read something from it which we\nknow they will understand. We generally find one or two women about the\nverandahs, and two or three more come within a few minutes, and seeing\nthis, two or three more. But getting them and keeping them are two\ndifferent things. It is not easy to hold people to hear what they have\nno special desire to hear. But we are helped; we are not alone. It is\nalways a strength to remember that.\n\nOnce fairly launched, interruptions begin. You are in the middle of a\nmiracle, perhaps, and by this time a dozen women have gathered, and\nrejoice your heart by listening well, when a man from the opposite side\nof the street saunters over and asks may he put a question, or asks it\nforthwith. He has heard that our Book says, that if you have faith you\ncan lift a mountain into the sea. Now, there is a mountain, and he\npoints to the pillar out on the plain, standing straight up for five\nthousand feet, a column of solid rock. There is sea on the other side,\nhe says; cast it in, and we will believe! And the women laugh. But one\nmore intelligent turns to you, \"Does your Book really say that?\" she\nasks, \"then why can't you do it, and let us see?\" And the man strikes in\nwith another remark, and a woman at the edge moves off, and you wish the\nman would go.\n\nPerhaps he does, or perhaps you are able to detach him from the visible,\nand get him and those women too to listen to some bit of witnessing to\nthe Power that moves the invisible, and you are in its very heart when\nanother objection is started: \"You say there is only one true God, but\nwe have heard that you worship three!\" or, \"Can your God keep you from\nsin?\" And you try, God helping you, to answer so as to avoid discussion,\nand perhaps to your joy succeed, and some are listening intently again,\nwhen a woman interrupts with a question about your relations which you\nanswered before, but she came late, and wants to hear it all over again.\nYou satisfy her as far as you can, and then, feeling how fast the\nprecious minutes are passing, you try, oh so earnestly, to buy them up\nand fill them with eternity work, when suddenly the whole community\nconcentrates itself upon your Tamil sister. Who is she? You had waived\nthe question at the outset, knowing what would sequel it, but they renew\nthe charge. If she is a \"born Christian,\" they exclaim, and draw away\nfor fear of defilement--\"Low-caste, low-caste!\" and the word runs round\ncontemptuously. If she is a convert, they ask questions about her\nrelations (they have probably been guessing among themselves about her\nCaste for the last ten minutes); if she does not answer them, they let\ntheir imagination run riot; if she does, they break out in indignation,\n\"Left your own mother! Broken your Caste!\" and they call her by names\nnot sweet to the ear, and perhaps rise up in a body, and refuse to have\nanything more to do with such a disgraceful person.\n\nOr perhaps you are trying to persuade some of them to learn to read,\nknowing that, if you can succeed, there will be so much more chance of\nteaching them, but they assure you it is not the custom for women in\nthat village to read, which unhappily is true; or it may be you are\ntelling them, as you tell those you may never see again, of the Love\nthat is loving them, and in the middle of the telling a baby howls, and\nall the attention goes off upon it; or somebody wants to go into the\nhouse, and a way has to be made for her, with much gathering together\nand confusion; or a dog comes yelping round the corner, with a stone at\nits heels, and a pack of small boys in full chase after it; or the men\ncall out it is time to be going; or the women suggest it is time to be\ncooking; or someone says or does something upsetting, and the group\nbreaks up in a moment, and each unit makes for its separate hole, and\nstands in it, looking out; and you look up at those dark little\ndoorways, and feel you would give anything they could ask, if only they\nwould let you in, and let you sit down beside them in one of those\nrooms, and tell them the end of the story they interrupted; but they\nwill not do that. Oh, it makes one sorrowful to be so near to anyone,\nand yet so very far, as one sometimes is from these women. You look at\nthem, as they stand in their doorways, within reach, but out of reach,\nas out of reach as if they were thousands of miles away. . . .\n\nJust as I wrote those words a Brahman woman came to the door and looked\nin. Then she walked in and sat down, but did not speak. Can you think\nhow one's heart bounds even at such a little thing as that? Brahman\nwomen do not come to see us every day. She pulled out a book of\npalm-leaf slips, and we read it. It told how she was one of a family of\nseven, all born deaf and dumb; how hand in hand they had set off to walk\nto Benares to drown themselves in the Ganges; how a Sepoy had stopped\nthem and taken them to an English Collector; how he had provided for the\nseven for a year, then let them go; how they had scattered and wandered\nabout, visiting various holy places, supported by the virtuous wherever\nthey went; and how the bearer would be glad to receive whatever we would\ngive her. . . . She has gone, a poor deaf and dumb and wholly heathen\nwoman; we could not persuade her to stay and rest. She is married, she\ntold us by signs; her husband is deaf and dumb, and she has one blind\nchild. She sat on the floor beside us for a few minutes and asked\nquestions--the usual ones, about me, all by signs; but nothing we could\nsign could in any way make her understand anything about our God. And\nyet she seems to know something at least about her own. She pointed to\nher mouth, and then up, and then down and round, to show the winding of\na river, and signed clearly enough how she went from holy river to holy\nriver, and worshipped by each, and she pointed up and clasped her hands.\nThere we were, just as I had been writing, so near to her, yet so far\nfrom her.\n\nBut the greatest difficulty of all in reaching the women is that they\nhave no desire to be reached. Sometimes, as on that afternoon when the\nchild came and wanted to hear, we find one who has desire, but the\ngreater number have none; and except in the more advanced towns and\nvillages, where they are allowed to learn with a Bible-woman, they have\nhardly a chance to hear enough to make them want to hear more.\n\nThen, as if to make the case doubly hard (and this law applies to every\nwoman, of whatever Caste), she is, in the eyes of the law, the property\nof her husband; and though a Christian cannot by law compel his Hindu\nwife to live with him, a Hindu husband can compel his Christian wife to\nlive with him; so that no married woman is ever legally free to be a\nChristian, for if the husband demanded her back, she could not be\nprotected, but would have to be given up to a life which no English\nwoman could bear to contemplate. She may say she is a Christian; he\ncares nought for what she says. God help the woman thus forced back!\n\nBut, believing a higher Power will step in than the power of this most\nunjust law, we would risk any penalty and receive such a wife should she\ncome. Only, in dealing with the difficulties and barriers which lie\nbetween an Indian woman and life as a free Christian, it is useless to\nshut one's eyes to this last and least comprehensible of all\ndifficulties, \"an English law, imported into India, and enforced with\nimprisonment,\" an obsolete English law!\n\nWe have no Brahman women converts in our Tamil Mission. We hear of a\nfew in Travancore; we know of more in the North, where the Brahmans are\nmore numerous and less exclusive; but there is not a single _bon\u00e2 fide_\nBrahman convert woman or child in the whole of this District. There was\none, a very old woman; but she died two years ago. We may comfort\nourselves with the thought that surely some of those who have heard have\nbecome secret believers. But will a true believer remain secret always?\nWe may trust that many a dear little child died young, loving Jesus, and\nwent to Him. But what about those who have not died young? I know that a\nbrighter view may be taken, and if the sadder has been emphasised in\nthese letters, it is only because we feel you know less about it.\n\nFor more has been written about the successes than about the failures,\nand it seems to us that it is more important that you should know about\nthe reverses than about the successes of the war. We shall have all\neternity to celebrate the victories, but we have only the few hours\nbefore sunset in which to win them. We are not winning them as we\nshould, because the fact of the reverses is so little realised, and the\nneeded reinforcements are not forthcoming, as they would be if the\nposition were thoroughly understood. Reinforcements of men and women are\nneeded, but, far above all, reinforcements of prayer. And so we have\ntried to tell you the truth--the uninteresting, unromantic truth--about\nthe heathen as we find them, the work as it is. More workers are needed.\nNo words can tell how much they are needed, how much they are _wanted_\nhere. But we will never try to allure anyone to think of coming by\npainting coloured pictures, when the facts are in black and white. What\nif black and white will never attract like colours? We care not for it;\nour business is to tell the truth. The work is not a pretty thing, to be\nlooked at and admired. It is a fight. And battlefields are not\nbeautiful.\n\nBut if one is truly called of God, all the difficulties and\ndiscouragements only intensify the Call. If things were easier there\nwould be less need. The greater the need, the clearer the Call rings\nthrough one, the deeper the conviction grows: _it was God's Call_. And\nas one obeys it, there is the joy of obedience, quite apart from the joy\nof success. There is joy in being with Jesus in a place where His\nfriends are few; and sometimes, when one would least expect it, coming\nhome tired out and disheartened after a day in an opposing or\nindifferent town, suddenly--how, you can hardly tell--such a wave of the\njoy of Jesus flows over you and through you, that you are stilled with\nthe sense of utter joy. Then, when you see Him winning souls, or hear of\nyour comrades' victories, oh! all that is within you sings, \"I have more\nthan an overweight of joy!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\"Attracted by the Influence\"\n\n          \"It seems to have been a mistake to imagine that\n          the Divine Majesty on high was too exalted to take\n          any notice of our mean affairs. The great minds\n          among us are remarkable for the attention they\n          bestow upon minuti\u00e6 . . . 'a sparrow cannot fall to\n          the ground without your Father.'\"\n                                _David Livingstone, Africa._\n\n\nWE have now left Dohnavur, on the West, and returned to our old\nbattlefield on the East. The evening after our arrival one of those\nspecial things happened, though only a little thing some will say--a\nlittle child was brought.\n\n[Illustration: This is not Pearl-eyes. Pearl-eyes is tinier, and has\nmore sparkle; but the Caste is the same, and as we have not got\nPearl-eyes, we put this small girl here.]\n\nThere is a temple in the Hindu village near us. We have often tried to\nreach the temple women, poor slaves of the Brahmans. We have often seen\nthe little girls, some of them bought as infants from their mothers, and\ntrained to the terrible life. In one of the Mission day schools there is\na child who was sold by her \"Christian\" mother to these Servants of the\ngods; but though this is known it cannot be proved, and the child has no\nwish to leave the life, and she cannot be taken by force.\n\nSometimes we see the little girls playing in the courtyards of the\nhouses near the temple, gracious little maidens, winsome in their ways,\nalmost always more refined in manner than ordinary children, and\noften beautiful. One longs to help the little things, but no hand of\nours can stretch over the wall and lift even one child out.\n\nAmong the little temple girls in the Great Lake Village was a tiny girl\ncalled Pearl-eyes, of whom we knew nothing; but God must have some\npurpose for her, for He sent His Angel to the house one afternoon, and\nthe Angel found little Pearl-eyes, and he took her by the hand and led\nher out, across the stream, and through the wood, to a Christian woman's\nhouse in our village. Next morning she brought her to us. This is what\nreally happened, I think; there is no other way to account for it. No\none remembers such a thing happening here before.\n\nI was sitting reading in the verandah when I saw them come. The woman\nwas looking surprised. She did not know about the Angel, I expect, and\nshe could not understand it at all. The little child was chattering\naway, lifting up a bright little face as she talked. When she saw me she\nran straight up to me, and climbed on my knee without the least fear,\nand told me all about herself at once. I took her to the Iyer, and he\nsent for the Pastor, who sent a messenger to the Village of the Lake, to\nsay the child was here, and to inquire into the truth of her story.\n\n\"My name is Pearl-eyes,\" the child began, \"and I want to stay here\nalways. I have come to stay.\" And she told us how her mother had sold\nher when she was a baby to the Servants of the gods. She was not happy\nwith them. They did not love her. Nobody loved her. She wanted to live\nwith us.\n\nBut why had she run away now? She hardly seemed to know, and looked\npuzzled at our questions. The only thing she was sure about was that she\nhad \"run and come,\" and that she \"wanted to stay.\" Then the Ammal came\nin, and she went through exactly the same story with her.\n\nWe felt, if this proved to be fact, that we could surely keep her; the\nGovernment would be on our side in such a matter. Only the great\ndifficulty might be to prove it.\n\nMeanwhile we gave her a doll, and her little heart was at rest. She did\nnot seem to have a fear. With the prettiest, most confiding little\ngesture, she sat down at our feet and began to play with it.\n\nWe watched her wonderingly. She was perfectly at home with us. She ran\nout, gathered leaves and flowers, and came back with them. These were\ncarefully arranged in rows on the floor. Then another expedition, and in\nagain with three pebbles for hearthstones, a shell for a cooking pot,\nbits of straw for firewood, a stick for a match, and sand for rice.\n\nShe went through all the minuti\u00e6 of Tamil cookery with the greatest\nseriousness. Then we, together with her doll, were invited to partake.\nThe little thing walked straight into our hearts, and we felt we would\nrisk anything to keep her.\n\nOur messenger returned. The story was true. The women from whose house\nshe had come were certainly temple women. But would they admit it to us,\nand, above all, would they admit they had obtained her illegally?--a\nfact easy to deny. Almost upon this they came; and to the Iyer's\nquestion, \"Who are you?\" one said, \"We are Servants of the gods!\" I\nheard an instructive aside, \"Why did you tell them?\" \"Oh, never mind,\"\nsaid the one who had answered, \"they don't understand!\" But we had\nunderstood, and we were thankful for the first point gained.\n\nThey stood and stared and called the child, but she would not go, and we\nwould not force her. Then they went away, and we were left for an hour\nin that curious quiet which comes before a storm. Our poor little girl\nwas frightened. \"Oh, if they come again, hide me!\" she begged. One saw\nit was almost too much for her, high-spirited child though she is.\n\nThe next was worse. A great crowd gathered on the verandah, and an\nevil-faced woman, who seemed to have some sort of power over Pearl-eyes,\nfiercely demanded her back. When we refused to make her go, the\nevil-faced woman, whose very glance sent a tremble through the little\none, declared that Pearl-eyes must say out loud that she would not go\nwith her, \"Out loud so that all should hear.\" But the poor little thing\nwas dumb with fear. She just stood and looked, and shivered. We could\nnot persuade her to say a word.\n\nStar was hovering near. She had been through it all herself before, and\nher face was anxious, and our hearts were, I know. It is impossible to\ndescribe such a half-hour's life to you; it has to be lived through to\nbe understood. The clamour and excitement, and the feeling of how much\nhangs on the word of a child who does not properly understand what she\nis accepting or refusing. The tension is terrible.\n\nI dared not go near her lest they should think I was bewitching her. Any\nmovement on my part towards her would have been the signal for a rush\non theirs; but I signed to Star to take her away for a moment. The\nbewilderment on the poor little face was frightening me. One more look\nup at that woman, one more pull at the strained cord, and to their\nquestion, \"Will you come?\" she might as likely say yes as no.\n\nStar carried her off. Once out of reach of those eyes, the words came\nfast enough. Star told me she clung to her and sobbed, \"Oh, if I say no,\nshe will catch me and punish me dreadfully afterwards! She will! I know\nshe will!\" And she showed cuts in the soft brown skin where she had been\npunished before; but Star soothed her and brought her back, and she\nstood--such a little girl--before them all. \"I won't! I won't!\" she\ncried, and she turned and ran back with Star. And the crowd went off,\nand I was glad to see the last of that fearful face, with its evil,\ncruel eyes.\n\nBut they said they would write to the mother, who had given her to them.\nWe noted this--the second point we should have to prove if they lodged a\nsuit against us--and any day the mother may come and complicate matters\nby working on the child's affections. Also, we have heard of a plot to\ndecoy her away, should we be for a moment off guard; so we are very much\non the watch, and we never let her out of our sight.\n\nBy this time--it is five days since she came--it seems impossible to\nthink of having ever been without her. Apart from her story, which would\ntouch anyone, there is her little personality, which is very\ninteresting. She plays all day long with her precious dolls, talking to\nthem, telling them everything we tell her. Yesterday it was a Bible\nstory, to-day a new chorus. She insisted on her best-beloved infant\ncoming to church with her, and it had to have its collection too.\nEverything is most realistic.\n\nTamil children usually hang their dolls up by their limbs to a nail in\nthe wall, or stow them away on a shelf, but this mite has imagination\nand much sympathy.\n\nIn thinking over it, as, bit by bit, her little story came to light, we\nhave been struck by the touches that tell how God cares. The time of her\ncoming told of care. Some months earlier, the temple woman who kept her\nhad burnt her little fingers across, as a punishment for some childish\nfault, and Pearl-eyes ran away. She knew what she wanted--her mother;\nshe knew that her mother lived in a town twenty miles to the East. It\nwas a long way for a little girl to walk, \"but some kind people found me\non the road, and they were going to the same town, and they let me go\nwith them, so I was not afraid, only I was very tired when we got there.\nIt took three days to walk. I did not know where my mother lived in the\ntown, and it was a very big town, but I described my mother to the\npeople in the streets, and at last I found my mother.\" For just a little\nwhile there was something of the mother-love, \"my mother cried.\" But the\ntemple woman had traced her and followed her, and the mother gave her\nup.\n\nThen comes a blank in the story; she only remembers she was lonely, and\nshe \"felt a mother-want about the world,\" and wandered wearily--\n\n          \"As restless as a nest-deserted bird\n           Grown chill through something being away, though what\n           It knows not.\"\n\nThen comes a bit of life distinct in every detail, and told with\nterribly unchildish horror. She heard them whisper together about her;\nthey did not know that she understood. She was to be \"married to the\ngod,\" \"tied to a stone.\" Terrified, she flew to the temple, slipped past\nthe Brahmans, crossed the court, stood before the god in the dim\nhalf-darkness of the shrine, clasped her hands,--she showed us\nhow,--prayed to it, pleaded, \"Let me die! Oh, let me die!\" Barely seven\nyears old, and she prayed, \"Oh, let me die!\"\n\nShe tried to run away again; if she had come to our village then, she\ncould not have been saved. We were in Dohnavur, and there was no one\nhere who could have protected her against the temple people. So God kept\nher from coming then.\n\nAbout that time, one afternoon one of our Tamil Sisters, whom we had\nleft behind to hold the fort, passed through the Great Lake Village, and\nthe temple women called the child, and said, \"See! It is she! The\nchild-stealing Ammal! Run!\" It was only said to frighten her, but it did\na different work. One day, _the day after we returned_, the thought\nsuddenly came to her, \"I will go and look for that child-stealing\nAmmal\"; and she wandered away in the twilight and came to our village,\nand stood alone in front of the church, and no one knew.\n\nThere one of our Christian women, Servant of Jesus by name, found her\nsome time afterwards, a very small and desolate mite, with tumbled hair\nand troubled eyes, for she could not find the one she sought, that\nchild-stealing Ammal she wanted so much, and she was frightened, all\nalone in the gathering dark by this big, big church; and very big it\nmust have looked to so tiny a thing as she.\n\nServant of Jesus thought at first of taking the little one back to her\nhome, but mercifully it was late (another touch of the hand of God), and\nso instead she took her straight to her own little house, which\nsatisfied Pearl-eyes perfectly. But she would not touch the curry and\nrice the kind woman offered her. She drew herself up to her full small\nheight and said, with the greatest dignity, \"Am I not a Vellala child?\nMay you ask me to break my Caste?\"\n\nSo Servant of Jesus gave her some sugar, that being ceremonially safe,\nand Pearl-eyes ate it hungrily, and then went off to sleep.\n\nNext morning, again the woman's first thought was to take her to her own\npeople. But the child was so insistent that she wanted the\nchild-catching Ammal, that Servant of Jesus, thinking I was the Ammal\nshe meant (for this is one of my various names), brought her to me, as I\nhave said, and oh, I am glad she did!\n\nNothing escapes those clear brown eyes. That morning, in the midst of\nthe confusion, one of the temple women called out that the child was a\nwicked thief. This is an ordinary charge. They think it will compel\nsubmission. \"We will make out a case, and send the police to drag you\noff to gaol!\" they yell; and sometimes there is risk of serious trouble,\nfor a case can be made out cheaply in India. But this did not promise to\nbe serious, so we inquired the stolen sum. It came to fourpence\nhalfpenny, which we paid for the sake of peace, though she told them\nwhere the money was, and we found out later that she had told the truth.\n\nI never thought she would remember it--the excitements of the day\ncrowded it out of my mind--but weeks afterwards, when I was teaching her\nthe text, \"Not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold,\"\nand explaining how much Jesus had paid for us, she interrupted me with\nthe remark, \"Oh yes, I understand! I know how much you paid for\nme--fourpence halfpenny!\"\n\nAnd now to turn from small-seeming things to large. Ragland, Tamil\nmissionary, is writing to a friend in 1847. He is trying to express\nastronomically the value of a soul. He asks, \"How does the astronomer\ncorrect the knowledge of the stars which simple vision brings him?\nFirst, having discovered that the little dot of light is thousands of\nmiles distant, and having discerned by the telescope that it subtends at\nthe eye a sensible angle, and having measured that angle, a simple\ncalculation shows him the size of the object to be greater perhaps than\nthat of the huge ball which he calls his earth.\" Then, \"Take the soul of\none of the poorest, lowest Pariahs of India, and form it by imagination\ninto, or suppose it represented by, a sphere. Place this at the\nextremity of a line which is to represent time. Extend this line and\nmove off your sphere, farther and farther _ad infinitum_, and what has\nbecome of your sphere? Why, there it is, just as before. . . . It is\nstill what it was, and this even after thousands of years. In short, the\ndisc appears undiminished, though viewed from an almost infinite\ndistance. _Oh, what an angle of the mind ought that poor soul to\nsubtend!_\"\n\nThe letter goes on to suggest another parallel between things\nastronomical and things spiritual. He supposes an objector admits the\nsize as proved, but demurs as to the importance of these heavenly\nbodies. \"They are, perhaps, only unsubstantial froth, mere puffs of air,\nvapoury nothings.\" But the astronomer knows their mass and weight, as\nwell as their size: \"Long observation has taught him that planets in the\nneighbourhood of one given heavenly body have been turned out of their\ncourse, how, and by what, he is at first quite at a loss to tell but he\nhas guessed and reasoned, has found cause for suspecting the planet. He\nwatches, observes, and compares; and after a long sifting of evidence,\nhe brings it in guilty of the disturbance. If it be so, it must have a\npower to disturb, a power to attract; and if so, it is not a mere shell,\nmuch less a mere vapour. It has mass and it has weight, and he\ncalculates and determines from the disturbances what that weight is.\nJust so with the Pariah's soul. Oh, what a disturbance has it created!\nWhat a celestial body has it drawn out from its celestial sphere! Not a\nstar, not the whole visible heavens, not the heaven of heavens itself,\nbut Him Who fills heaven and earth, by Whom all things were created.\n_Him did that Pariah's soul attract from heaven even to earth to save\nit. Oh that we would thence learn, and learning, lay to heart the weight\nand the value of that one soul._\"\n\nAnd just as the majesty of the glory of the Lord is shown forth nowhere\nmore majestically than in the chapter which tells us how He feeds His\nflock like a shepherd, and gathers the lambs with His arm, and carries\nthem in His bosom, so nowhere, I think, do we see the glory of our God\nmore than in chapters of life which show Him bending down from the\ncircle of the earth, yea rather, coming down all the way to help it,\n\"attracted by the influence\" of the need of a little child.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nThe Elf\n\n          \"You remember what I said once, that you could\n          not, perhaps, put a whole crown on the head of\n          Jesus--that is, bring a whole country to be\n          His--but you might put one little jewel in His\n          crown.\"\n                            _Bishop French, India and Arabia._\n\n\nPEARL-EYES, otherwise the Elf, because it exactly describes her, was\nvery good for the first few weeks, after which we began to know her. She\nis not a convert in any sense of the term. She is just a very wilful,\ntruthful, exasperating, fascinating little Oriental.\n\nWhen she is, as she expresses it, \"moved to sin,\" nobody of her own\ncolour can manage her. \"You are only _me_ grown up,\" is her attitude\ntowards them all. She is always ready to repent, but, as Pearl\nsorrowfully says, \"before her tears are dry, she goes and sins again,\"\nand then, quite unabashed, she will trot up to you as if nothing had\nhappened and expect to be lavishly petted.\n\nI never saw anyone except the Elf look interesting when naughty. She\ndoes look interesting. She is a rather light brown, and any emotion\nmakes the brown lighter; her long lashes droop over her eyes in the most\npathetic manner, and when she looks up appealingly she might be an\ninnocent martyr about to die for her faith.\n\nWe have two other small girls with us; the Imp--but her name is a libel,\nshe reformed some months ago--and Tangles, who ties herself into knots\nwhenever she makes a remark. These three have many an argument (for\nIndian children delight in discussion), and sometimes the things that\nare brought to me would shock the orthodox. This is the last, brought\nyesterday:\n\n\"Obedience is not so important as love. Orpah was very obedient. Her\nmother-in-law said, 'Go, return,' and she did as she was told. But Ruth\nwas not obedient at all. Four times her mother-in-law said, 'Go,' and\nyet she would not go. But God blessed Ruth much more than Orpah, because\nshe loved her mother-in-law. So obedience is not so important as love.\"\nOnly the day before I had been labouring to explain the absolute\nnecessity for the cultivation of the grace of obedience; but now it was\nproved a secondary matter, for Ruth was certainly disobedient, but good\nand greatly blessed.\n\nThe Elf's chief delinquencies at present, however, spring from a rooted\naversion to her share in the family housework (ten minutes' rubbing up\nof brass water-vessels); an appetite for slate pencils--she would nibble\nthem by the inch if we would let her--\"they are so nice to eat,\" she\nsays; and, most fruitful of all in sad consequences, a love of being\nfirst.\n\nAs regards sin No. 1, I hope it will soon be a thing of the past, for\nshe has just made a valuable discovery: \"Satan doesn't come very close\nto me if I sing all the time I'm rubbing the brasses. He runs away when\nhe hears me sing, so I sing very loud, and that keeps him away. Satan\ndoesn't like hymns.\" And I quite agree, and strongly advise her to\npersevere.\n\nSin No. 2 is likely to pass, as she hates the nasty medicine we give her\nto correct her depraved proclivities; but No. 3 is more serious. It\nopens the door, or, as she once expressed it, it \"calls so many other\nsins to come,\"--quarrelling, pride, and several varieties of temper,\ncome at the \"call\" of this sin No. 3.\n\nShe is a born leader in her very small way, and she has not learned yet,\nthat before we can lead we must be willing to be led. \"I will choose the\ngame,\" she remarks \"and all of you must do as I tell you.\" Sometimes\nthey do, for her directions, though decisive, are given with a certain\ngrace that wins obedience; but sometimes they do not, and then the Elf\nis offended, and walks off.\n\nBut she is the life of the game, and they chase her and propitiate her;\nand she generally condescends to return, for solitary dignity is dull.\nIf any of the seniors happen to see it, it is checked as much as\npossible, but oftener we hear of it in that very informing prayer, which\nis to her quite the event of the evening; for she takes to the outward\nforms of religion with great avidity, and the evening prayer especially\nis a deep delight to her. She counts up all her numerous shortcomings\ncarefully and perfectly truthfully, as they appear to her, and with\nequal accuracy her blessings large and small. She sometimes includes her\ngood deeds in the list, lest, I suppose, they should be forgotten in the\nrecord of the day. All the self-righteousness latent in human nature\ncomes out, or used to, in her earlier days, in the evening revelations.\nHere is a specimen, taken at random from the first month's sheaf. She\nand the Imp had come to my room for their devotions, preternaturally\npious, both of them, though quite unregenerate. It was the Elf's turn to\nbegin. She settled herself circumspectly, sighed deeply, and then began.\n\nFirst came the day's sins, counted on the fingers of the right hand,\nbeginning with the fourth finger. \"Once,\" and down went the little\nfinger on the palm, \"I was cross with L.\" (L. being the Imp, nine and a\nhalf to the Elf's seven and a half, but most submissive as a rule.) \"I\nwas cross because she did not do as I told her. That was wrong of me;\nbut it was wrong of her too, so it was only half a sin. Twice,\" and the\nthird finger was folded down, \"when I did not do my work well. That was\nquite all my fault. Three times,\" and down went the middle finger, \"when\nI caught a quarrel with those naughty little children; they were stupid\nlittle children, and they would not play my game, so I spoiled unity.\nBut they came running after me, and they said, 'Please forgive us,' so I\nforgave them. That was very good of me, and I also forgave L.; so that\nis three bad things and two good things to-day.\"\n\nI stopped her, and expatiated on the sin of pride, but her mind was full\nof the business in hand.\n\n\"Then there were four blessings--no, five; but I can't remember the\nfifth. The Ammal gave me a box for my doll, and you gave me some sweets;\nand I found some nice rags in your waste-paper basket\"--grubbing in\nrag-bags and waste-paper baskets is one of the joys of life; rags are so\nuseful when you have a large family of dolls who are always wearing out\ntheir clothes--\"and I have some cakes in my own box now. There are four\nblessings. But I forget the fifth.\"\n\nI advised her to leave it, and begin, for the Imp was patiently waiting\nher turn. She, good child, suggested the missing fifth must be the\nsoap--the Ammal had given each of them a piece the size of a walnut.\nYes, that was it apparently, for the Elf, contented, began--\n\n\"O loving Lord Jesus! I have done three wrong things to-day\" (then\nfollowed the details and prayer for forgiveness). \"Lord, give L. grace\nto do what I want her to do; and when she does not do it, Lord, give me\ngrace to be patient with her. I thank Thee for causing me to forgive\nthose little children who would not play the game I liked. Oh make them\ngood, and make me also good; and next time we play together give me\ngrace to play patiently with them. And oh, forgive all the bad things I\nhave done to-day; and I thank Thee very much for all the good things I\nhave done, for I did them by Thy grace.\" Praise for mercies followed in\norder: the cardboard box, the lump of sugar-candy, the spoils from the\nwaste-paper basket, those sticky honey-cakes--which, to my disquietude,\nI then understood were secreted in her seeley box--and that precious bit\nof soap. Then--and this is never omitted--a fervently expressed desire\nfor safe preservation for herself and her friends from \"the bites of\nsnakes and scorpions, and all other noxious creatures, through the\ndarkness of the night, and when I wake may I find myself at Thy holy\nfeet. Amen.\"\n\nNo matter how sleepy she is, these last phrases, which are quite of her\nown devising, are always included in the tail-end of her prayer. She\nwould not feel at all safe on her mat, spread on the ground out of doors\nin hot weather, unless she had so fortified herself from all attacks of\nthe reptile world. And when, one day, we discovered a nest of some few\ndozen scorpions within six yards of her mat, not one of which had ever\ndisturbed her or any of her \"friends,\" we really did feel that funny\nlittle prayer had power in it after all.\n\nYou cannot interrupt in the middle of those rather confusing\nconfessions, she is far too much engaged to be disturbed, but when the\ncommunication is fairly over, and she cuddles on your knee for the\nkissing and caressing she so much appreciates, you have a chance of\nexplaining things a little.\n\nShe listened seriously that evening, I remember, then, slipping down off\nmy knee, she added as a sort of postscript, very reverently, \"O Lord\nJesus, I prayed it wrong. I was naughtier than L., much naughtier. But\nindeed Thou wilt remember that she was naughty first. . . . Oh, that's\nnot it! It was not L., it was me! And I was impatient with those little\nchildren. But . . . but they caused impatience within me.\" Then getting\nhopelessly mixed up between self-condemnation and self-justification,\nshe gave it up, adding, however, \"Next time we play together, give\n_them_ more grace to play patiently with me,\" which was so far\nsatisfactory, as at first she had scouted the idea that there could be\nany need of patience on the other side.\n\nSometimes she brings me perplexities not new to most of us. \"This\nmorning I prayed with great desire, 'Lord, keep me to-day from being\nnaughty at all,' and I was naughty an hour afterwards; I looked at the\nclock and saw. How was it I was naughty when I wanted to be good? The\nnaughtiness jumped up inside me, so\"--(illustrating its supposed action\nwithin), \"and it came running out. So what is the use of praying?\"\n\nOnce the difficulty was rather opposite.\n\n\"Can you be good without God's grace?\"\n\nI told her I certainly could not.\n\n\"Well, I can!\" she answered delightedly. \"I want to pray now.\"\n\n\"Now? It is eight o'clock now. Haven't you had prayer long ago?\" (We all\nget up at six o'clock.)\n\n\"No. That's just what I meant. I skipped my prayer this morning, and so\nof course I got no grace; but I have been helping the elder Sisters.\nWasn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite right.\"\n\n\"And yet I hadn't got any grace! But I suppose,\" she added reflectively,\n\"it was the grace over from yesterday that did it.\"\n\nAs a rule she is not distinguished for very deep penitence, but at one\ntime she had what she called \"a true sense of sin\" which fluctuated\nrather, but was always hailed, when it appeared in force, as a sign of\nbetter things. After a day of mixed goodness and badness the Elf prayed\nmost devoutly, \"I thank Thee for giving me a sense of sin to-day. O God,\nkeep me from being at all naughty to-morrow. But if I am naughty, Lord,\ngive me a true sense of sin!\"\n\n[Illustration: We value this photo exceedingly, it was so hard to get.\nWe were in a big heathen village when we saw this Ugly Duckling, in fact\nshe was one of the most tiresome of the \"rabbits\" mentioned in Chapter\nI. She saw us, and darted off and climbed a wall and made faces at us in\na truly delightful manner. We thought we would take her, and tried. As\nwell try to pick up quicksilver; she would not be caught. The deed was\nfinally done when she had not the least idea of it, and the camera gave\na triumphant click as it snapped her unawares. \"What do they want her\nfor?\" inquired a grown-up bystander, who had observed our little game.\n\"Look at her hair,\" said another, \"they never saw hair like that in\nEngland, that's what they want her for!\"]\n\nProfessor Drummond speaks of our whole life as a long-drawn breath of\nmystery, between the two great wonders--the first awakening and the last\nsleep. I often think of that as I listen to the little children talking\nto each other and to us. They are always wondering about something. One\nday it was, \"Do fishes love Jesus?\" followed by \"What is a soul?\" The\nconclusion was, \"It's the thing we love Jesus with.\" When they first\ncome to us they invariably think that mountains grow like trees: \"Stones\nare young mountains, aren't they? and hills are middle-aged mountains.\"\nLater on, every printed thing on a wall is a text. We were in a railway\nstation, on our way to the hills: \"Look! oh, what numbers and numbers of\ntexts! But what queer pictures to have on texts!\" One was specially\nperplexing; it was a well-known advertisement, and the picture showed a\nmonkey smoking a cigar. What could that depraved animal have to do with\n_a text_? When we got to the hills the first amazement was the sight of\nthe fashionable ladies wearing veils. \"Don't they like to look at God's\nbeautiful world? Do they like it better _spotty_?\"\n\nTangles has another name; it is the \"Ugly Duckling,\" and it is extremely\ndescriptive; but Ugly Duckling or not, she is of an inquiring turn of\nmind, and one Saturday afternoon, after standing under a tree for fully\nfive minutes lost in thought, she came to me with a question: \"What are\nthe birds saying to each other?\" I looked at the Ugly Duckling, and she\ntwisted herself into a note of interrogation, in the ridiculous way she\nhas, but her face was full of anxiety for enlightenment about the\nlanguage of the sparrows. \"There,\" she said, pointing vigorously to the\nastonished birds, which instantly flew away, \"that little sparrow and\nthis one are making quite different noises. What are they saying? I\ndo want to know so much!\"\n\nAs I imagined the birds in question had just been having supper, I told\nher what I thought they were probably saying. Next day, in the sermon,\nthere was something about the praise all creation offers to God, and I\nsaw Tangles knotting her hands together and going into the queerest\ncontortions in appreciation of the one bit of the sermon she could\nunderstand.\n\nThe Imp's questions were various. \"What is that?\"--pointing to a\nbusy-bee clock--\"is it an English kind of insect? Don't its legs get\ntired going round? Oh! is it dead now?\" (when it stopped). \"Who made\nSatan?\" was an early one. \"Why doesn't God kill him immediately, and\nstamp on him?\" One day I was trying to find and touch her heart by\ntelling her how very sorry Jesus is when we are naughty. She seemed\nsubdued, then--\"Amma, where was the Queen's spirit after she died and\nbefore they buried her, _and what did they give it to eat_?\"\n\n\"Did you see Lot's wife?\" was a question which tickled the Bishop when,\non his last visitation, he gave himself up to an hour's catechising upon\nhis tour in the Holy Land. They were disappointed that he had to confess\nhe had not. \"Oh, I suppose the salt has melted,\" was the Elf's comment\nupon this.\n\nTangles is distinctly inclined to peace. The Elf, I grieve to say, is\nnot. Yesterday she announced a quarrel: \"I feel cross!\" Tangles objected\nto quarrel. \"I do feel cross!\" and the Elf apparently showed\ncorroborative symptoms. Then Tangles looked at her straight: \"I'm not\ngoing to quarrel. The devil has arrived in the middle of the afternoon\nto interrupt our unity, and I won't let him!\" which so touched the Elf\nthat she embraced her on the spot; and then, in detailing it all in her\nprayer in the evening, this incorrigible little sinner added, with real\nemotion, \"Lord, I am not good. I spoiled unity with L.\" (the Imp), \"and\nThou didst feel obliged to remove her to a boarding-school. Now do help\nme not to spoil unity with P.\" (who is Tangles), \"lest Thou shouldst\nfeel obliged to remove her also to a boarding-school,\"--a view of the\nImp's promotion which had not struck me before.\n\nTangles and she belong to the same Caste, and Tangles has the character\nof that Caste as fully developed as the Elf, and can hold her own\neffectually. Also she is a little older and taller, and being the Elf's\n\"elder sister,\" is, therefore, entitled to a certain measure of respect.\nAll those small things tend to the discipline of the Elf, who is very\nsmall for her age, and who would have preferred a junior, of a meek and\nmild disposition, and whose constant prayer is this: \"O Lord, bring\nanother little girl out of the lion's mouth, but, O Lord, please let her\nbe a _very little girl_!\" Shortly after this prayer began, a very little\ngirl was brought; but she was a vulgar infant, and greatly tried the\nElf, and she was, for various reasons, promptly returned to her parents.\nAfter this episode the prayer varied somewhat: \"Lord, let her be a\n_suitable_ child, and give me grace to love her from my heart when she\ncomes.\"\n\nThe conversation of these young creatures is often very illuminating,\nand always most miscellaneous. The Elf's mind especially is a sort of\nsmall curiosity shop, and displays many assortments. The Elf, Tangles,\nand little Delight (Delight is a youthful Christian) are curled up on\nthe warm red sand with their three little heads close together. The Elf\nis telling a story. I listen, and hear a marvellous muddle of the\n_Uganda Boys_ and _Cyril of North Africa_. \"He was only six years old,\nand he stood up and said, 'What you are going to do, do quickly! I am\nnot afraid. I am going to the Golden City!' And they showed him the\nsword and the fire, and he said, 'Do it quickly!' and they chopped off\nhis arm, and said, 'Will you deny Jesus?' and he said, 'No!' and they\nchopped off his other arm,\"--and so on through all the various limbs in\nmost vivid detail,--\"and then they threw him on the fire, and burnt him\ntill he was ashes; and he sang praises to Jesus!\"\n\nThe Elf leans to the tragic. Tangles' mother had a difference of opinion\nwith a friend. The friend snatched at her opponent's ear jewels, and\ntore the ear. Life with a torn ear was intolerable, so Tangles' mother\nwalked three times round the well, repeated three times, \"My blood be on\nyour head!\" and sprang in. She rose three times, each time said the same\nwords, and then sank. All this Tangles confided to the Elf, who\nconcocted a game based upon the incident--which, however, we ruthlessly\nsquashed. They are tossing pebbles now, according to rules of their own,\nand talking vigorously. \"The Ammal told me all the people in England are\nwhite, and I asked her what they did without servants, and she said they\nhad white servants, _white servants_!!\" and the note of exclamation is\nintense. The others are equally astonished. White people as servants!\nThe two ideas clash. They have never seen a white servant. In all their\nextensive acquaintance with white people they have only seen\nmissionaries (who are truly their servants, though they hardly realise\nit yet), and occasionally Government officials, whose mastership is very\nmuch in evidence. So they are puzzled. They get out of the difficulty,\nhowever. \"At the beginning of the beginning of England, black people\nmust have gone to be the white people's servants, and they gradually\ngrew white.\" Yes, that's it apparently; they faded.\n\nThe conversation springs higher. \"Do you know what lightning is? I'll\ntell you. I watched it one whole evening, and I think it's just a little\nbit of heaven's light coming through and going back again.\" This sounds\nprobable, and great interest is aroused. They are discussing the sheet\nlightning which plays about the sky in the evening before rain. \"Of\ncourse it isn't much of heaven's light, only a little tiny bit getting\nout and running down here to show us what it is like inside. One night I\nshut my eyes, and it ran in and out, in and out, oh so fast! Even if I\nshut my eyes I saw it running inside my eyes.\"\n\n\"Did you get caned in school to-day?\"\n\n\"No, not exactly caned,\" and an explanation follows. \"I was standing\nbeside a very naughty little girl, and the teacher meant to cane her,\nbut the cane fell on me by mistake. I wanted to cry, because it hurt,\nbut I thought it would be silly to cry when it hurt me quite by mistake.\nSo I didn't cry one tear!\"\n\nThe Elf hit upon a capital expedient for escaping castigation (which is\nnever very severe). \"I found this cane myself. It was lying on the\nground in the compound, and I am going to take it to the teacher.\"\nChorus of \"Why?\" \"Because,\" and the Elf looked elfish, \"if I give it to\nhim with my own hands, how will he cane my hands with it? His heart will\nnot be hard enough to cane me with the cane I gave him!\" and the little\nscamp looks round for applause. Chorus of admiring \"Oh!\"\n\nThen they begin again, the Elf as usual chief informant. \"I know\nsomething!\" Chorus, \"What?\" \"A beautiful doll is waiting for me in a\nbox, and I'm going to have it at Ki-rismas!\" \"What sort of a doll?\" is\nthe eager inquiry. \"I don't know exactly, but God sent it, of course, so\nI think it must be something like an angel.\" Chorus, delightedly, \"Ah!\"\n\"Yes, if it came from God, then of course it came from heaven, and\nheaven is the place all the angels come from, and they are white and\nshining, so I think it will be white and shining like an angel.\" The\ndoll in question is a negress with a woolly head and a scarlet-striped\npinafore. It had not struck me as angelic. It is an experiment in dolls.\nWill it \"take\"? Ki-rismas came at last, and the heavenly doll with it,\nbut it did not \"take.\" Grievous were the tears and sobs, and the\nbitterest wail of all was, \"I thought God would have sent me a nicer\ndoll!\" We changed it for a \"nicer doll,\" for the poor Elf was not\nwicked, only broken-hearted, and Star, who is supposed to be much too\nold for dolls, begged for the despised black beauty; because, as the Elf\nmaliciously remarked as she hugged her white dolly contentedly, \"That\nblack thing has a curly head, just like Star's!\"\n\nThe habit of praying about everything is characteristic of the Elf, and\nmore than once her uninstructed little soul has grieved over the strange\nway our prayers are sometimes answered. One day she came rushing in full\nof excitement. \"Oh, may I go and be examined? The Government Missie\nAmmal is going to examine our school! Please let me go!\" The Government\nMissie Ammal, a great celebrity who only comes round once a year, was\nstaying with us, and I asked her if the child might have the joy of\nbeing examined even though she had not had nearly her year at school.\nShe agreed, for the sake of the little one's delight--for an Indian\nchild likes nothing better than a fuss of any kind--to let her come into\nthe examination room, and take her examination informally. We knew she\nwas sure of a pass. An hour or two afterwards a scout came flying over\nto tell us the awful news. The Elf had failed, utterly failed, and she\nwas so ashamed she wouldn't come back, \"wouldn't come back any more.\" I\nwent for her, and found her a little heap of sobs and tears, outside the\nschoolroom. I gathered her up in my arms and carried her home, and tried\nto comfort her, but she was crushed. \"I asked God so earnestly to let me\npass, and I didn't pass! And I thought He had listened, but now I know\nHe didn't listen at all!\"\n\nI was puzzled too, though for a different reason. I knew she should\neasily have passed, and I could only conclude her wild excitement had\nmade her nervous, for with many tears she told me, \"I did not know one\nanswer! not even one!\" And again she came back to the first and sorest,\n\"Oh, I did think God was listening, and He wasn't listening at all!\"\n\nAt last I got her quieted, and explained, by means of a rupee and an\nanna, how sometimes God gives us something better than we ask for; we\nask for an anna, and He gives us a rupee. A rupee holds sixteen annas.\nShe grew interested: \"Then my passing that examination was the anna. But\nwhat is the rupee?\" Now the Elf, as you may have observed, is not\nweighted with over much humility, so I told her I thought the rupee must\nbe humility. She considered a while, then sliding off my knee, she knelt\ndown and said, with the utmost gravity and purpose, \"O God! I did not\nwant that kind of answer, but I do want it now. Give me the rupee of\nhumility!\" Then springing up with eyes dancing with mischief, \"Next time\nI fall into pride you will say, 'Oh, where is that rupee?'\"\n\nWhen the school examinations were over, and the Missie Ammal came back\nto rest, I asked her about the Elf. \"She really did very badly, seemed\nto know nothing of her subjects; should not have gone in, poor mite!\" It\nsuddenly struck me to ask what class she had gone into. \"The first,\"\nsaid the Missie Ammal. \"But she is in the infants'!\" Then we understood.\nThe Elf had only been at school for a few months, and had just finished\nthe infant standard book, and had been moved into the first a day or two\nbefore, as the teacher felt she was well able to clear the first course\nin the next six months and take her examination in the following year,\ntwo years' work in one. But it was not intended she should go in for\nthe Government examination, which requires a certain time to be spent in\npreparation; so when, in the confusion of the arrangement of the\nclasses, she stood with her little class-fellows of two days only, the\nmistake was not noticed. No wonder the poor Elf failed! We never told\nher the reason, not desiring to raise fresh questions upon the\nmysterious ways of Providence in her busy little brain; and to this day,\nwhen she is betrayed into pride, she shakes her head solemnly at\nherself, and remembers the rupee.\n\nShe has lately been staying with the Missie Ammals, \"my very particular\nfriends,\" as she calls them, at the C.E.Z. House, in Palamcottah. She\nreturned to us full of matter, and charged with a new idea. \"I am no\nmore going to spend my pocket money upon vanities. I am going to save it\nall up, and buy a _Gee-lit Bible_.\" This gilt-edged treasure is a\nfruitful source of conversation. It will take about six years at the\nrate of one farthing a week to save enough to buy exactly the kind she\ndesires. \"I don't want a _common_ Bible. It must be _gee-lit_, with\nshining _gee-lit_ all down the leaves on the outside, and the name on\nthe back all _gee-lit_ too. That's the kind of Bible I want!\" Just as I\nwrote that, she trotted in and poured three half-annas in small change\nupon the table. \"That's all I've got, and it's six weeks' savings. Six\nyears is a long, long time!\" She confided to me that she found \"the\nflesh wanted to persuade\" her to spend these three half-annas on cakes.\n\"It is the flesh, isn't it, that feeling you get inside, that says\n'sweets and cakes! sweets and cakes!' in a very loud voice? I listened\nto it for a little, and then I wanted those sweets and cakes! So I said\nto myself, If I buy them they will all be gone in an hour, but if I buy\nthat Gee-lit Bible it will last for years and years. So I would not\nlisten any more to my flesh.\" Then a sudden thought struck her, and she\nadded impressively, \"But when _you_ give me sweets and cakes, that is\ndifferent; the feeling that likes them is not 'flesh' then. It is only\n'flesh' when I'm tempted to spend my Gee-lit Bible money on them.\" This\nwas a point I was intended thoroughly to understand. Sweets and cakes\nwere not to be confused with \"flesh\" except where a Gee-lit Bible was\nconcerned. She seemed relieved when I agreed with her that such things\nmight perhaps sometimes be innocently enjoyed, and with a sudden and\nrather startling change of subject inquired, \"Do they _never_ have\nholidays in hell?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nDeified Devilry\n\n          \"Next to the sacrificers, they (the temple women)\n          are the most important persons about the temple.\n          That a temple intended as a place of worship, and\n          attended by hundreds of simple-hearted men and\n          women, should be so polluted, and that in the name\n          of religion, is almost beyond belief; and that\n          Indian boys should grow up to manhood, accustomed\n          to see immorality shielded in these temples with a\n          divine cloak, makes our hearts grow sick and\n          faint.\"\n                                     _Mrs. Fuller, India._\n\n\nEXCUSE the title of this chapter. I can write no other. Sometimes the\nbroad smooth levels of life are crossed by a black-edged jagged crack,\nrent, as it seems, by an outburst of the fiery force below. We find\nourselves suddenly close upon it; it opens right at our very feet.\n\nTwo girls came to see us to-day; sisters, but tuned to different keys.\nOne was ordinary enough, a bright girl with plenty of jewels and a\nmerry, contented face. The other was finer grained; you looked at her as\nyou would look at the covers of a book, wondering what was inside. Both\nwere married; neither had children. This was the only sorrow the younger\nhad ever had, and it did not seem to weigh heavily.\n\nThe elder looked as if she had forgotten how to smile. Sometimes, when\nthe other laughed, her eyes would light for a moment, but the shadow in\nthem deepened almost before the light had come; great soft brown eyes,\nfull of the dumb look that animals have when they are suffering.\n\nI knew her story, and understood. She was betrothed as a baby of four to\na lad considerably older; a lovable boy, they say he was, generous and\nfrank. The two of course belonged to the same Caste, the Vellalar, and\nwere thoroughly well brought up.\n\nIn South India no ceremony of importance is considered complete without\nthe presence of \"the Servants of the gods.\" These are girls and women\nbelonging to the temple (that is, belonging to the priests of the\ntemple), who, as they are never married, \"except to the god who never\ndies,\" can never become widows. Hence the auspiciousness of their\npresence at betrothals, marriages, feasts of all sorts, and even\nfunerals.\n\nBut this set of Vellalars had as a clan risen above the popular\nsuperstition, and the demoralising presence of these women was not\nallowed to profane either the betrothal or marriage of any child of the\nfamily. So the boy and girl grew up as unsullied as Hindus ever are.\nThey knew of what happened in other homes, but their clan was a large\none, and they found their society in it, and did not come across others\nmuch.\n\nShortly before his marriage the boy went to worship in the great temple\nnear the sea. He had heard of its sanctity all his life, and as a little\nlad had often gone with his parents on pilgrimage there, but now he went\nto worship. He took his offering and went. He went again and again. All\nthat he saw there was religion, all that he did was religious. Could\nthere be harm in it?\n\nHe was married; his little bride went with him trustfully. She knew more\nof him than most Indian brides know of their husbands. She had heard he\nwas loving, and she thought he would be kind to her.\n\nA year or two passed, and the child's face had a look in it which even\nthe careless saw, but she never spoke about anything to give them the\nclue to it. She went to stay in her father's house for a few weeks, and\nthey saw the change, but she would not speak even to them.\n\nThen things got worse. The girl grew thin, and the neighbours talked,\nand the father heard and understood; and, to save a scandal, he took\nthem away from the town where they lived, and made every effort to give\nthem another start in a place where they were not known. But the coils\nof that snake of deified sin had twisted round the boy, body and soul;\nhe could not escape from it.\n\nThey moved again to another town; it followed him there, for a temple\nwas there, and a temple means _that_.\n\nThen the devil of cruelty seized upon him; he would drink, a disgraceful\nthing in his Caste, and then hold his little wife down on the floor, and\nstuff a bit of cloth into her mouth, and beat her, and kick her, and\ntrample upon her, and tear the jewels out of her ears. The neighbours\nsaw it, and told.\n\nThen he refused to bring money to her, and she slowly starved, quite\nsilent still, till at last hunger broke down her resolute will, and she\nbegged the neighbours for rice. And he did more, but it cannot be told.\nHow often one stops in writing home-letters. _The whole truth can never\nbe told._\n\nShe is only a girl yet, in years at least; in suffering, oh, how old she\nis! Not half is known, for she never speaks; loyal and true to him\nthrough it all. We only know what the neighbours know, and what her\nsilent dark eyes tell, and the little thin face and hands.\n\nShe was very weary and ill to-day, but she would not own it, brave\nlittle soul! I could see that neuralgia was racking her head, and every\nlimb trembled when she stood up; but what made it so pathetic to me was\nthe silence with which she bore it all. I have only seen her once\nbefore, and now she is going far away with her husband to another town,\nand I may not see her again. She was too tired to listen much, and she\nknows so little, not nearly enough to rest her soul upon. She cannot\nread, so it is useless to write to her. She is going away quite out of\nour reach; thank God, not out of His.\n\nWe watched them drive off in the bullock cart, a servant walking behind.\nThe little pale face of the elder girl looked out at the open end of the\ncart; she salaamed as they drove away. Such a sweet face in its silent\nstrength, so wondrously gentle, yet so strong, strong to endure.\n\nDo you wonder I call this sort of thing a look deep down into hell? Do\nyou wonder we burn as we think of such things going on in the Name of\nGod? For they think of their god as God. In His Name the temples are\nbuilt and endowed, and provided with \"Servants\" to do devil's work. Yes,\nsin is deified here.\n\nAnd the shame of shames is that some Englishmen patronise and in measure\nsupport the iniquity. They attend entertainments at which these girls\nare present to sing and dance, and see nothing disgraceful in so doing.\nAs lately as 1893, when the Indian Social Reformers of this Presidency\npetitioned two notable Englishmen to discountenance \"this pernicious\npractice\" (the institution of Slaves of the gods) \"by declining to\nattend any entertainment at which they are invited to be present,\" these\ntwo distinguished men, representatives of our Queen, refused to take\naction in the matter. Surely this is a strange misuse of our position as\nrulers of India.[2]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are so many needs everywhere that I hardly like to speak of our\nown, but we do need someone to work among these temple women and girls.\nThere is practically nothing being done for them; because it is\nimpossible for any of us to work among them and others at the same time.\nThe nearest Home to which we could send such a one is four hundred miles\naway. Someone is needed, old enough to have had experience of this kind\nof work, and yet young enough to learn the language.\n\nMany of these Slaves of the gods were bought, or in some other way\nobtained, when they were little innocent girls, and they cannot be held\nresponsible for the terrible life to which they are doomed by the law of\nthe Hindu religion. Many of them have hardened past any desire to be\nother than they are; but sometimes we see the face of a girl who looks\nas if she might have desire, if only she had a chance to know there is\nsomething better for her.\n\nCan it be that, out of the many at home, God has one, or better, two,\nwho can come with Him to this South Indian District to do what must\nalways be awful work, along the course of that crack? If she comes, or\nif they come, let them come in the power of the Holy Ghost, baptised\nwith the love that endures!\n\nThis, then, is one look into Hinduism, this ghastly whitened sepulchre,\nwithin which are dead men's bones.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[2] For details, see _The Wrongs of Indian Womanhood_, by Mrs. Fuller.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nBehind the Door\n\n          \"When any person is known to be considering the\n          new Religion, all his relations and acquaintances\n          rise _en masse_; _so that to get a new convert is\n          like pulling out the eye-tooth of a live tiger_.\"\n                                  _Adoniram Judson, Burmah._\n\n\nEVERY missionary who has despaired of hitting upon an illustration vivid\nenough to show you what the work is really like among Mohammedans and\nCaste Hindus will appreciate this simile. After our return from Dohnavur\nwe found that the long-closed villages of this eastern countryside had\nopened again, and the people were willing to allow us to teach the girls\nand women. For two months this lasted, and then three boys, belonging to\nthree different Castes, became known as inquirers. Instantly the news\nspread through all the villages. It was in vain we told them we\n(women-workers) had never once even seen the boys, had in no way\ninfluenced them; the people held to it that, personally responsible or\nnot, the book we taught to the girls was the same those boys had read\n(an undeniable fact); that its poison entered through the eyes, ascended\nto the brain, descended to the heart, and then drew the reader out of\nhis Caste and his religion; and that therefore we could not be tolerated\nin the streets or in the houses any more, and so we were turned out.\n\n[Illustration: \"It took me such a long time to learn to draw nicely,\"\nsaid Victory when she saw this photo; \"I used to go to the Brahman\nstreet every morning and practise it there.\" A design is drawn with a\npiece of chalk on the ground in front of every house each morning during\npart of December and January, in memory of a goddess who used to amuse\nherself by drawing these patterns and planting flowers in them. All\nsorts of geometrical designs are drawn by the women and children, and\nthe regular morning drawing is part of the day's work.]\n\nIn one village where many of the relations of one of these three lads\nlive, the tiger growled considerably. One furious old dame called us\n\"Child-snatchers and Powder-mongers,\" and white snakes of the cobra\nspecies, and a particular genus of lizard, which when stamped upon\nmerely wriggles, and cannot be persuaded to die (this applied to our\npersistence in evil), and a great many other things. The women stood out\nin the street in defiant groups and would not let us near enough to\nexplain. The men sat on the verandah fronts and smiled, blandly superior\nto the childish nonsense the women talked, but they did not interfere.\n\nVillages like this--and Old India is made up of such villages--are far\nremoved from the influence of the few enlightened centres which exist.\nMadras is only a name to them, distant four hundred miles or so, a place\nwhere Caste notions are very lax and people are mixed up and jumbled\ntogether in a most unbecoming way.\n\nEducation, or \"Learning,\" as they call it, they consider an excellent\nthing for boys who want to come to the front and earn money and grow\nrich. But for girls, what possible use is it? Can they pass examinations\nand get into Government employ? If you answered this question you would\nonly disgust them. Then there is a latent feeling common enough in these\nold Caste families, that it is rather _infra dig._ for their women to\nknow too much. It may be all very well for those who have no pretensions\nto greatness, they may need a ladder by which to climb up the social\nscale, but we who are already at the top, what do we want with it?\n\"Have not our daughters got their _Caste_?\" This feeling is passing away\nin the towns, but the villages hold out longer.\n\nIn that particular village we had some dear little girls who were\ngetting very keen, and it was so hard to move out, and leave the field\nto the devil as undisputed victor thereon, and I sent one of our workers\nto try again. She is a plucky little soul, but even she had to beat a\nretreat. They will have none of us.\n\nWe went on that day to a village where they had listened splendidly only\na week before. They had no time, it was the busy season. Then to a town,\nfarther on, but it was quite impracticable. So we went to our friend the\ndear old Evangelist there, the blind old man. He and his wife are lights\nin that dark town. It is so refreshing to spend half an hour with two\ngenuine good old Christians after a tug of war with the heathen; they\nhave no idea they are helping you, but they are, and you return home\never so much the happier for the sight of them.\n\nAs we came home we were almost mobbed. In the old days mobs there were\nof common occurrence. It is a rough market town, and the people, after\nthe first converts came, used to hoot us through the streets, and throw\nhandfuls of sand at us, and shower ashes on our hair. In theory I like\nthis very much, but in practice not at all. The yellings of the crowd,\nmen chiefly, are not polite; the yelpings of the dogs, set on by\nsympathetic spectators; the sickening blaze of the sun and the reflected\nglare from the houses; the blinding dust in your eyes, and the queer\nfeel of ashes down your neck; above all, the sense that this sort of\nthing does no manner of good--for it is not persecution (nothing so\nheroic), and it will not end in martyrdom (no such honours come our\nway)--all this row, and all these feelings, one on the top of the other,\ncombine to make mobbing less interesting than might be expected. You\nhold on, and look up for patience and good nature and such like common\ngraces, and you pray that you may not be down with fever to-morrow--for\nfever has a way of stopping work--and you get out of it all, as quickly\nas you can, without showing undue hurry. And then, though little they\nknow it, you go and get a fresh baptism of love for them all.\n\nBut how delighted one would be to go through such unromantic trifles\nevery hour of every day, if only at the end one could get into the\nhearts and the homes of the people. As it is, just now, our grief is\nthat we cannot. We know of several who want us, and we are shut out from\nthem.\n\nOne is a young wife, who saw us one day by the waterside, and asked us\nto come and teach her. For doing this she was publicly beaten that\nevening in the open street, by a man, before men; so, for fear of what\nthey would do to her, we dare not go near the house. Another is a widow\nwho has spent all her fortune in building a rest-house for the Brahmans,\nand who has not found Rest. She listened once, too earnestly; she has\nnot been allowed to listen again. Oh, how that tiger bites!\n\nNext door to her is a child we have prayed for for three years. She was\na loving, clinging child when I knew her then, little Gold, with the\nearnest eyes. That last day I saw her, she put her hands into mine,\ncaring nothing for defilement; \"Are we not one Caste?\" she said. I did\nnot know it was the last time I should see her; that the next time when\nI spoke to her I should only see her shadow in the dark; and one wishes\nnow one had known--how much one would have said! But the house was open\nthen, and all the houses were. Then the first girl convert, after\nbravely witnessing at home, took her stand as a Christian. Her Caste\npeople burned down the little Mission school--a boys' school--and\nchalked up their sentiments on the charred walls. They burned down the\nBible-woman's house and a school sixteen miles away; and the countryside\nclosed, every town and village in it, as if the whole were a single\ndoor, with the devil on the other side of it.\n\nBut some of the girls behind the door managed to send us messages. Gold\nwas one of these. She wanted so much to see us again, she begged us to\ncome and try. We tried; we met the mother outside, and asked her to let\nus come. She is a hard old woman, with eyes like bits of black ice, set\ndeep in her head. She froze us, and refused.\n\nAfterwards we heard what the child's punishment was. They took her down\nto the water, and led her in. She stood trembling, waist deep, not\nknowing what they meant to do. Then they held her head under the water\ntill she made some sign to show she would give in. They released her\nthen, rubbed ashes on her brow, sign of recantation, and they led her\nback sobbing--poor little girl. She is not made of martyr stuff; she was\nonly miserable. For some months we saw nothing of her. We used to go to\nthe next house and persuade the people to let us sing to them. We sang\nfor Gold; but we never knew if she heard.\n\nOne evening, as two of us came home late from work, a woman passed us\nand said hurriedly to me, \"Come, come quickly, and alone. It is Gold who\ncalls you! Come!\" I followed her to the house. \"I am Gold's married\nsister,\" she explained. \"Sit down outside in the verandah near the door\nand wait till the child comes out.\" Then she went in, and I sat still\nand waited.\n\nThose minutes were like heart-beats. What was happening inside? But\napparently the mother was away, for soon the door opened softly, and a\nshadow flitted out, and I knew it must be Gold. She dropped on her knees\non the little narrow verandah on the other side of the door and crept\nalong to its farther end, and then I could only distinguish a dark shape\nin the dark. For perhaps five minutes no one came except the sister, who\nstood at the door and watched. And for those five minutes one was free\nto speak as freely as one could speak to a shape which one could barely\nsee, and which showed no sign, and spoke no word. Five whole minutes!\nHow one valued every moment of them! Then a man came and sat down on the\nverandah. He must have been a relative, for he did not mean to go. I\nwished he would. It was impossible to talk past him to her, without\nletting him know she was there; so one had to talk to him, but for her,\nand even this could not last long. Dusk here soon is dark; we had to go.\nAs we went, we looked back and saw him still keeping his unconscious\nguard over the child in her hiding-place.\n\nThere are no secrets in India. It was known that we had been there, and\nthat stern old mother punished her child; but how, we never knew.\n\nIf any blame us for going at all, let it be remembered that one of\nChrist's little ones was thirsty, and she held out her hand for a cup of\ncold water. We could not have left that hand empty, I think.\n\nAfter that we heard nothing for a year; then an old man whom we had\nhelped, and who hoped we intended to help him more, came one evening to\ntell us he meant to set Gold free. It was all to be secretly done, and\nit was to be done that night. We told him we could have nothing to do\nwith his plan, and we explained to him why. \"But,\" he objected, \"what\nfolly is this? I thought you Christians helped poor girls, and this one\ncertainly wants to come. She is of age. This is the time. If you wait\nyou will never get her at all.\" We knew this was more than probable; to\nrefuse his help was like turning the key and locking her body and soul\ninto prison--an awful thought to me, as I remembered Treasure. But there\nwas nothing else to be done; and afterwards, when we heard who he was,\nand what his real intentions were, we were thankful we had done it. He\nlooked at us curiously as he went, as if our view of things struck him\nas strange; and he begged us never to breathe a word of what he had\nsaid. We never did, but it somehow oozed out, and soon after that he\nsickened and very suddenly died. His body was burnt within two hours.\nPost-mortems are rare in India.\n\nAnother year passed in silence as to Gold. How often we went down the\nstreet and looked across at her home, with its door almost always shut,\nand that icy-eyed mother on guard. We used to see her going about, never\nfar from the house. When we saw her we salaamed; then she would glare at\nus grimly, and turn her back on us. Once the whole family went to a\nfestival; but the girl of course was bundled in and out of a covered\ncart, and seen by no one, not even the next-door neighbours. There was\ntalk of a marriage for her. Most girls of her Caste are married much\nyounger; but to our relief this fell through, and once one of us saw her\nfor a moment, and she still seemed to care to hear, though she was far\ntoo cowed by this time to show it.\n\nThen we heard a rumour that a girl from the Lake Village had been seen\nby some of our Christians in a wood near a village five miles distant.\nThese Christians are very out-and-out and keen about converts, and they\nmanaged to discover that the girl in the wood had some thought of being\na Christian, and that her being there had some connection with this, so\nthey told us at once. The description fitted Gold. But we could not\naccount for a girl of her Caste being seen in a wood; she was always\nkept in seclusion. At last we found out the truth. She had shown some\nsign of a lingering love for Christ, and her mother had taken her to a\nfamous Brahman ascetic who lived in that wood; and there together,\nmother and daughter stayed in a hut near the hermit's hut, and for three\ndays he had devoted himself to confuse and confound her, and finally he\nsucceeded, and reported her convinced.\n\n[Illustration: This is the tangible brass-bossed door outside of which\nwe so often stand on the stone step and knock, and hear voices from\nwithin call, \"Everyone is out.\" The hand-marks are the hand-prints of\nthe Power that keeps the door shut. Once a year, every door and the\nlintel of every window, and sometimes the walls, are marked like this.\nThat evening, just before dark, the god comes round, they say, and looks\nfor his mark on the door, and, seeing it, blesses all in the house. If\nthere is no mark he leaves a curse. This is the devil's South Indian\nparody on the Passover.]\n\nWe heard all this, and sorrowed, and wondered how it was done. We never\nheard all, but we heard one delusion they practised upon her, appealing\nas they so often do to the Oriental imagination, which finds such solid\nsatisfaction in the supernatural. Nothing is so convincing as a vision\nor a dream; so a vision appeared before her, an incarnation, they told\nher, of Siva, in the form of Christ. Siva and Christ, then, were one, as\nthey had so often assured her, one identity under two names. Hinduism is\ncrammed with incarnations; this presented no difficulty. Like the old\nmonk, the bewildered child looked for the print of the nails and the\nspear. Yes, they were there, marked in hands and foot and side. It must\nbe hard to distrust one's own mother. Gold still trusted hers. \"Listen!\"\nsaid the mother, and the vision spoke. \"If the speech of the Christians\nis true, I will return within twenty-four days; if the speech of the\nHindus is true, I will not return.\" Then hour by hour for those\ntwenty-four days they wove their webs about her, webs of wonderful\nsophistry which have entangled keener brains than hers. She was\nentangled. The twenty-four days did their work. She yielded her will on\nthe twenty-fifth. So the mother and the Brahman won.\n\nThese letters are written, as you know, with a definite purpose. We try\nto show you what goes on behind the door, the very door of the\nphotograph, type of all the doors, that seeing behind you may understand\nhow fiercely the tiger bites.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\"Pan, Pan is Dead\"\n\n          \"If there is one thing that refreshes my soul\n          above all others, it is that I shall behold the\n          Redeemer gloriously triumphant at the winding up\n          of all things.\"\n                                  _Henry Martyn, N. India._\n\n\n\"PARTLY founded upon a well-known tradition, mentioned by Plutarch,\naccording to which, at the hour of the Saviour's Agony, a cry of, 'Great\nPan is dead,' swept across the waves in the hearing of certain mariners,\nand the oracles ceased.\" So reads the head-note to one of Elizabeth\nBarrett Browning's poems. We look up a classical dictionary, and find\nthe legend there. \"This was readily believed by the Emperor, and the\nastrologers were consulted, but they were unable to explain the meaning\nof so supernatural a voice.\"\n\nPan, and with him all the false gods of the old world, die in the day of\nthe death of our Saviour,--this according to the poem--\n\n          \"Gods, we vainly do adjure you,--\n             Ye return nor voice nor sign!\n           Not a votary could secure you\n             Even a grave for your Divine;\n           Not a grave, to show thereby,\n           Here these grey old gods do lie.\n                  Pan, Pan is dead.\"\n\nAnd yet--is he dead? quite dead?\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nNight, moonless and hot. Our camp is pitched on the west bank of the\nriver; we are asleep. Suddenly there is what sounds like an explosion\njust outside. Then another and another,--such a bursting bang,--then a\ns-s-swish, and I am out of bed, standing out on the sand; and for a\nmoment I am sure the kitchen tent is on fire. Then it dawns on me, in\nthe slow way things dawn in the middle of the night: it is only\nfireworks being let off by the festival people--only fireworks!\n\nBut I stand and look, and in the darkness everything seems much bigger\nthan it is and much more awful. There is the gleaming of water, lit by\nthe fires of the crowd on the eastern bank of the river. There are\ntorches waving uncertainly in and out of the vast black mass--black even\nin the black of night--where the people are. There is the sudden burst\nand s-s-swish of the rockets as they rush up into the night, and fall in\nshowers of colours on the black mass and the water; and there is the\nhoarse roar of many voices, mingled with the bleat of many goats. I\nstand and look, and know what is going on. They are killing those\ngoats--thirty thousand of them--killing them now.\n\nIs Pan dead? . . .\n\nMorning, blazing sun, relentless sun, showing up all that is going on.\nWe are crossing the river-bed in our cart. \"Don't look!\" says my\ncomrade, and I look the other way. Then we separate. She goes among the\ncrowds in the river bed, where the sun is hottest and the air most\npolluted and the scenes on every side most sickening, and I go up the\nbank among the people. We have each a Tamil Sister with us, and farther\ndown the stream another little group of three is at work. In all seven,\nto tens of thousands. But we hope more will come later on.\n\nWe have arranged to meet at the cart at about ten o'clock. The bandy-man\nis directed to work his way up to a big banyan tree near the temple. He\nstruggles up through a tangle of carts, and finds a slanting\nstanding-ground on the edge of the shade of the tree.\n\nAll the way up the bank they are killing and skinning their goats. You\nlook to the right, and put your hands over your eyes. You look to the\nleft, and do it again. You look straight in front, and see an extended\nskinned victim hung from the branch of a tree. Every hanging rootlet of\nthe great banyan tree is hung with horrors--all dead, most mercifully,\nbut horrible still.\n\nWe had thought the killing over, or we should hardly have ventured to\ncome; but these who are busy are late arrivals. One tells oneself over\nand over again that a headless creature cannot possibly feel, but it\nlooks as if it felt . . . it goes on moving. We look away, and we go on,\ntrying to get out of it,--but thirty thousand goats! It takes a long\ntime to get out of it.\n\nWe see groups of little children watching the process delightedly. There\nis no intentional cruelty, for the god will not accept the sacrifice\nunless the head is severed by a single stroke--a great relief to me. But\nit is most disgusting and demoralising. And to think that these children\nare being taught to connect it with religion!\n\nWith me is one who used to enjoy it all. She tells me how she twisted\nthe fowls' heads off with her own hands. I look at the fine little brown\nhands, such loving little hands, and I can hardly believe it.\n\"You--_you_ do such a thing!\" I say. And she says, \"Yes; when the day\ncame round to sacrifice to our family divinity, my little brother held\nthe goat's head while my father struck it off, and I twisted the\nchickens' heads. It was my pleasure!\"\n\nWe go up along the bank; still those crowds, and those goats killed or\nbeing killed. We cannot get away from them.\n\nAt last we reach a tree partly unoccupied, but it is leafless, alas! On\none side of it a family party is cheerfully feeding behind a shelter of\nmats. A little lower down some Pariahs are haggling over less polite\nportions of the goat's economy. They wrap up the stringy things in\nleaves and tuck them into a fold of their seeleys. At our feet a small\nboy plays with the head. We sit down in the band of shade cast by the\ntrunk of the tree, and, grateful for so much shelter, invite the\npassers-by to listen while we sing. Some listen. An old hag who is\nchaperoning a bright young wife draws the girl towards us, and sits\ndown. She has never heard a word of our Doctrine before, and neither has\nthe girl. Then some boys come, full of mischief and fun, and threaten an\nupset. So we pick out the rowdiest of them and suggest he should keep\norder, which he does with great alacrity, swinging a switch most\nvigorously at anyone likely to interfere with the welfare of the\nmeeting.\n\nMy little companion speaks to them, as only one who was once where they\nare ever can. I listen to her, and long for the flow at her command. \"Do\nyou not do this and this?\" she says, naming the very things they do;\n\"and don't you say so and so?\" They stare, and then, \"Oh, she was once\none of us! What is her Caste? When did she come? Where are her father\nand mother? What is her village? Is she not married? Why is she not? And\nwhere are her jewels?\" Above all, everyone asks it at once, \"What is her\nCaste?\" And they guess it, and probably guess right.\n\nYou can have no idea, unless you have worked among them, how difficult\nit is to get a heathen woman to listen with full attention for ten\nconsecutive minutes. They are easily distracted, and to-day there are so\nmany things to distract them, they don't listen very well. They are\ntired, too, they say; the wild, rough night has done its work. Yesterday\nit was different; we got good listeners.\n\nBeing women, and alone in such a crowd of idolaters, we do not attempt\nan open-air meeting, but just sit quietly where we can, and talk to any\nwe can persuade to sit down beside us. Hindus are safer far than\nMohammedans; they are very seldom rude; but to-day we know enough of\nwhat is going on to make us keep clear of all men, if we can. They would\nnot say anything much to us, but they might say a good deal to each\nother which is better left unsaid.\n\nBy the time we have gathered, and held, and then had to let go, three or\nfour of such little groups, it is breakfast time, and we want our\nbreakfast badly. So we press through the crowd, diving under mat sheds\nand among unspeakable messes, heaps of skins on either side, and one\nhardly knows what under every foot of innocent-looking sand; for the\npeople bury the d\u00e9bris lightly, throwing a handful of sand on the\nworst, and the sun does the rest of the sanitation. It is rather\nhorrible.\n\nAt last we reach the cart, tilted sideways on the bank, and get through\nour breakfast somehow, and rest for a few blissful minutes, in most\nuncomfortable positions, before plunging again into that sea of sun and\nsand and animals, human and otherwise; and then we part, arranging to\nmeet when we cannot go on any more.\n\nIs Pan dead? . . .\n\nNoon, and hotter, far hotter, than ever. Oh, how the people throng and\npush, and kill and eat, and bury remains! How can they enjoy it so? What\ncan be the pleasure in it?\n\nWe find our way back to that ribbon of shade. It is a narrower ribbon\nnow, because the sun, riding overhead, throws the shadow of a single\nbough, instead of the broader trunk. But such as it is, we are glad of\nit, and again we gather little groups, and talk to them, and sing.\n\nSome beautiful girls pass us close, the only girls to be seen anywhere.\nOnly little children and wives come here; no good unmarried girls. One\nof the group is dressed in white, but most are in vivid purples and\ncrimsons. The girl in white has a weary look, the work of the night\nagain. But most of the sisterhood are indoors; in the evening we shall\nsee more of them, scattered among the people, doing their terrible\nmaster's work. These pass us without speaking, and mingle in the crowd.\n\nAfter an hour in the band of shade, we slowly climb the bank again, and\nfind ourselves among the potters, hundreds and hundreds of them. Every\nfamily buys a pot, and perhaps two or three of different sizes; so the\npotters drive a brisk trade to-day, and have no leisure to listen to us.\n\nIt is getting very much hotter now, for the burning sand and the\nthousands of fires radiate heat-waves up through the air, heated already\nstiflingly. We think of our comrades down in the river bed, reeking with\nodours of killing and cooking, a combination of abominations unimagined\nby me before.\n\nWe look down upon a collection of cart tops. The palm-woven mat covers\nare massed in brown patches all over the sand, and the moving crowds are\nbetween. We do not see the others. Have they found it as difficult as we\nfind it, we wonder, to get any disengaged enough to want to listen? At\nlast we reach the long stone aisle leading to the temple. On either side\nthere are lines of booths, open to the air but shaded from the sun, and\nwe persuade a friendly stall-keeper to let us creep into her shelter.\nShe is cooking cakes on the ground. She lets us into an empty corner,\nfacing the passing crowds, and one or two, and then two or three, and so\non till we have quite a group, stop as they pass, and squat down in the\nshade and listen for a little. Then an old lady, with a keen old face,\nbuys a Gospel portion at half price, and folds it carefully in a corner\nof her seeley. Two or three others buy Gospels, and all of them want\ntracts. The shop-woman gets a bit restive at this rivalry of wares. We\nspend our farthings, proceeds of our sales, on her cakes, and she is\nmollified. But some new attraction in the gallery leading to the temple\ndisperses our little audience, to collect it round itself. The old\nwoman explains that the Gospel she has bought is for her grandson, a\nscholar, she tells us, aged five, and moves off to see the new show, and\nwe move off with her.\n\nThere, in the first stall, between the double row of pillars, a man is\nstanding on a form, whirling a sort of crackling rattle high above his\nhead. In the next, another is yelling to call attention to his clocks.\nThere they are, ranged tier upon tier, regular \"English\" busy-bee\nclocks, ticking away, as a small child remarks, as if they were alive.\nThen come sweet-stalls, clothes-stalls, lamp-stalls, fruit-stalls,\nbook-stalls, stalls of pottery, and brass vessels, and jewellery, and\nbasket work, and cutlery, and bangles in wheelbarrow loads, and\nmedicines, and mats, and money boxes, and anything and everything of\nevery description obtainable here. In each stall is a stall-keeper.\nOccasionally one, like the clock-stall man, exerts himself to sell his\ngoods; more often he lazes in true Oriental fashion, and sells or not as\nfortune decides for him, equally satisfied with either decree. How\nIndian shopkeepers live at all is always a puzzle to me. They hardly\never seem to do anything but _moon_.\n\nOn and on, in disorderly but perfectly good-natured streams, the people\nare passing up to the temple, or coming down from worship there. All who\ncome down have their foreheads smeared with white ashes. Even here there\nare goats; they are being pulled, poor reluctant beasts, right to the\nsteps of the shrine, there to be dedicated to the god within. Then they\nwill be dragged, still reluctant, round the temple walls outside, then\ndecapitated.\n\nI watch a baby tug a goat by a rope tied round its neck. The goat has\nhorns, and I expect every moment to see the baby gored. But it never\nseems to enter into the goat's head to do anything so aggressive. It\ntugs, however, and the baby tugs, till a grown-up comes to the baby's\nassistance, and all three struggle up to the shrine.\n\nWe are standing now in an empty stall, just a little out of the crush.\nNext door is an assortment of small Tamil booklets in marvellous\ncolours, orange and green predominating. There is an empty barrel rolled\ninto the corner, and we sit down on it, and begin to read from our Book.\nThis causes a diversion in the flow of the stream, and we get another\nchance.\n\nBut it grows hotter and hotter, and we get so thirsty, and long for a\ndrink of cocoanut water. It is always safe to drink that. No cocoanuts\nare available, though, and we have no money. Then a man selling native\nbutter-milk comes working his way in and out of the press, and we become\nconscious that of all things in the world the thing we yearn for most is\na drink of butter-milk. The man stops in front of our stall, pours out a\ncupful of that precious liquid, and seeing the thirst in our eyes, I\nsuppose, beseeches us to drink. We explain our penniless plight. \"Buy\nour books, and we'll buy your butter-milk,\" but he does not want our\nbooks. Then we wish we had not squandered our farthings on those\nimpossible cakes. The butter-milk man proposes he should trust us for\nthe money; he is sure to come across us again. He is a kind-hearted man;\nbut debt is a sin; it is not likely we shall see him again. The\nbutter-milk man considers. He is poor, but we are thirsty. To give\ndrink to the thirsty is an act of merit. Acts of merit come in useful,\nboth in this world and the next. He pours out a cupful of butter-milk\n(he had poured the first one back when we showed our empty hands). We\nhesitate; he is poor, but we are so very thirsty. The next stall-keeper\nreads our hearts, throws a halfpenny to the butter-milk man. \"There!\" he\nsays, \"drink to the limit of your capacity!\" and we drink. It is a\ncomical feeling, to be beholden to a seller of small Tamil literature of\nquestionable description; but we really are past drawing nice\ndistinctions. Never was butter-milk so good; we get through three brass\ntumbler-fuls between us, and feel life worth living again. We give the\ngood bookseller plenty of books to cover his halfpenny, and to gratify\nus he accepts them; but as he does not really require them, doubtless\nthe merit he has acquired is counted as undiminished, and we part most\nexcellent friends.\n\nAnd now the crowd streaming up to the temple gets denser every moment.\nEvery conceivable phase of devotion is represented here, every\nconceivable type of worshipper too. Some are reverent, some are rampant,\nsome are earnest, some are careless, awestruck, excited, but more\nusually perfectly frivolous; on and on they stream.\n\nI leave my Tamil Sister safely with two others at the cart. But the\ncomrade whom I am to meet again at that same cart some time to-day has\nnot turned up. So I go off alone for another try, drawn by the sight of\nthat stream, and I let myself drift along with it, and am caught in it\nand carried up--up, till I am within the temple wall, one of a stream\nof men and women streaming up to the shrine. We reach it at last. It is\ndark; I can just see an iron grating set in darkness, with a light\nsomewhere behind, and there, standing on the very steps of Satan's seat,\nthere is a single minute's chance to witness for Christ. The people are\nall on their faces in the dust and the crush, and for that single minute\nthey listen, amazed at hearing any such voice in here; but it would not\ndo to stay, and, before they have time to make up their minds what to\nmake of it, I am caught in another stream flowing round to the right,\nand find myself in a quieter place, a sort of eddy on the outer edge of\nthe whirlpool, where the worship is less intense, and very many women\nare sitting gossiping.\n\nThere, sitting on the ground beside one of the smaller shrines which\ncluster round the greater, I have such a chance as I never expected to\nget; for the women and children are so astonished to see a white face in\nhere that they throw all restraint to the winds, and crowd round me,\nasking questions about how I got in. For Indian temples are sacred to\nIndians; no alien may pass within the walls to the centre of the shrine;\nmoreover, we never go to the temples to see the parts that are open to\nview, because we know the stumbling-block such sight-seeing is to the\nHindus. All this the women know, for everything a missionary does or\ndoes not do is observed by these observant people, and commented on in\nprivate. Now, as they gather round me, I tell them why I have come (how\nI got in I cannot explain, unless it was, as the women declared, that,\nbeing in a seeley, one was not conspicuous), and they take me into\nconfidence, and tell me the truth about themselves, which is the last\nthing they usually tell, and strikes me as strange; and they listen\nsplendidly, and would listen as long as I would stay. But it is not wise\nto stay too long, and I get into the stream again, which all this time\nhas been pouring round the inner block of the temple, and am carried\nround with it as it pours back and out.\n\nAnd as I pass out, still in that stream, I notice that the temple area\nis crowded with all kinds of merchandise, stalls of all sorts, just as\noutside. Vendors of everything, from mud pots up to jewels, are roaming\nover the place crying their wares, as if they had been in a market; and\nright in the middle of them the worship goes on at the different shrines\nand before the different idols. There it is, market and temple, as in\nthe days of our Lord; neither seems to interfere with the other. No one\nseems to see anything incongruous in the sight of a man prostrated\nbefore a stone set at the back of a heap of glass bangles. And when\nsomeone drops suddenly, and sometimes reverently, in front of a stall of\ncoils of oily cakes, no one sees anything extraordinary in it; they know\nthere is a god somewhere on the other side of the cakes.\n\nOn and out, through the aisle with its hundred pillars, all stone--stone\npaving, pillars, roof; on and out, into the glare and the sight of the\ngoats again. But one hardly sees them now, for between them and one's\neyes seem to come the things one saw inside--those men and women,\nhundreds of them, worshipping that which is not God.\n\nIs Pan dead? . . .\n\nPan is dead! Oh, Pan is dead! For, clearer than the sight of that\nidolatrous crowd, I saw this--I had seen it inside those temple\nwalls:--a pile of old, dead gods. They were bundled away in a corner,\nbehind the central shrine--stone gods, mere headless stumps; wooden gods\nwith limbs lopped off; clay gods, mere lumps of mud; mutilated and\nneglected, worn-out old gods. Oh, the worship once offered to those\nbroken, battered things! No one worships them now! For full five minutes\nI had sat and looked at them--\n\n          \"Gods bereav\u00ebd, gods belated,\n             With your purples rent asunder!\n           Gods discrowned and desecrated,\n             Disinherited of thunder!\"\n\nThere were withered wreaths lying at the feet of some of the idols near;\nthere were fresh wreaths round the necks of others. There were no\nwreaths in this corner of dead gods. I looked, and looked, and looked\nagain. Oh, there was prophecy in it!\n\nAnd as I came out among the living people, the sight of that graveyard\nof dead gods was ever with me, and the triumph-song God's prophetess\nsang, sang itself through and through me--Pan is dead! _Quite dead!_\n\n          \"'Twas the hour when One in Sion\n             Hung for love's sake on a cross;\n           When His brow was chill with dying,\n             And His soul was faint with loss;\n           When His priestly blood dropped downward,\n           And His kingly eyes looked throneward--\n                 Then, Pan was dead.\n\n          \"By the love He stood alone in,\n             His sole Godhead rose complete,\n           And the false gods fell down moaning,\n             Each from off his golden seat;\n           All the false gods with a cry\n           Rendered up their deity--\n                 Pan, Pan was dead.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\"Married to the God\"\n\n          \"One thing one notices very much as a\n          'freshman'--that is, the unconscious influence\n          which Christianity has over a nation. Go to the\n          most depraved wretch you can find in England, and\n          he has probably got a conscience, if only one can\n          get at it. _But here the result of heathenism\n          seems to be to destroy men's consciences. They\n          never feel sin as such._\"\n                                _Rev. E. S. Carr, India._\n\n          \"I have heard people say they enjoyed hearing\n          about missions. I often wonder if they would enjoy\n          watching a shipwreck.\"\n                                _Mrs. Robert Stewart, China._\n\n\nLEAVE this chapter if you want \"something interesting to read\"; hold\nyour finger in the flame of a candle if you want to know what it is like\nto write it. If you do this, then you will know something of the burning\nat heart every missionary goes through who has to see the sort of thing\nI have to write about. Such things do not make interesting reading. Fire\nis an uncompromising thing, its characteristic is that it burns; and one\nwrites with a hot heart sometimes. There are things like flames of fire.\nBut perhaps one cares too much; it is only about a little girl.\n\nI was coming home from work a few evenings ago when I met two men and a\nchild. They were Caste men in flowing white scarves--dignified, educated\nmen. But the child? She glanced up at me, smiled, and salaamed. Then I\nremembered her; I had seen her before in her own home. These men\nbelonged to her village. What were they doing with her?\n\nThen a sudden fear shot through me, and I looked at the men, and they\nlaughed. \"We are taking her to the temple there,\" and they pointed\nacross through the trees, \"to marry her to the god.\"\n\nIt all passed in a moment. One of them caught her hand, and they went\non. I stood looking after them--just looking. The child turned once and\nwaved her little hand to me. Then the trees came between.\n\nThe men's faces haunted me all night. I slept, and saw them in my\ndreams; I woke, and saw them in the dark. And that little girl--oh, poor\nlittle girl!--always I saw her, one hand in theirs, and the other waving\nto me!\n\nAnd now it is over, the diabolical farce is over, and she is \"tied,\" as\ntheir idiom has it, \"tied to the stone.\" Oh, she is tied indeed, tied\nwith ropes Satan twisted in his cruellest hour in hell!\n\nWe had to drive through the village a night or two later, and it was all\nablaze. There was a crowd, and it broke to let our bullock carts pass,\nthen it closed round two palanquins.\n\nThere were many men there, and girls. In the palanquins were two idols,\ngod and goddess, out on view. It was their wedding night. We saw it all\nas we passed: the gorgeous decorations, gaudy tinsels, flowers fading in\nthe heat and glare; saw, long after we had passed, the gleaming of the\ncoloured lights, as they moved among the trees; heard for a mile and\nmore along the road the sound of that heathen revelry; and every thud\nof the tom-tom was a thud upon one's heart. Our little girl was there,\nas one \"married\" to that god.\n\nI had seen her only once before. She belonged to an interesting\nhigh-caste village, one of those so lately closed; and because there\nthey have a story about the magic powder which, say what we will, they\nimagine I dust upon children's faces, I had not gone often lest it\nshould shut the doors. But that last time I went, this child came up to\nme, and, with all the confidingness of a child, asked me to take her\nhome with me. \"Do let me come!\" she said.\n\nThere were eyes upon me in a moment and heads shaken knowingly, and\nthere were whispers at once among the women. The magic dust had been at\nwork! I had \"drawn\" the little girl's heart to myself. Who could doubt\nit now? And one mother gathered her child in her arms and disappeared\ninto the house. So I had to answer carefully, so that everyone could\nhear. Of course I knew they would not give her to me, and I thought no\nmore of it.\n\nI was talking to her grandmother then, a very remarkable old lady. She\ncould repeat page after page from their beloved classics, and rather\nthan let me sing Christian stanzas to her and explain them, she\npreferred to sing Hindu stanzas to me and explain them. \"Consider the\nage of our great Religion, consider its literature--millions of stanzas!\nWhat can you have to compare with it? These ignorant people about us do\nnot appreciate things. They know nothing of the classics; as for the\nlanguage, the depths of Tamil are beyond them--is it not a shoreless\nsea?\" And so she held the conversation.\n\n[Illustration: This is vile enough to look at, but nothing to the\nreality. If the outer form is this, what must the soul within it be? Yet\nthis is a \"holy Brahman;\" and if we sat down on that stone verandah he\nwould shuffle past the pillar lest we should defile him. Look at the\nshadowy shapes behind; they might be spirits of darkness. It is he, and\nsuch as he, who have power over little temple flowers.]\n\nIt was just at this point the child reappeared, and, standing by the\nverandah upon which we were sitting, her little head on a level with our\nfeet, she joined in the stanza her grandmother was chanting, and, to my\nastonishment, continued through the next and the next, while I listened\nwondering. Then jumping up and down, first on one foot, then on the\nother, with her little face full of delight at my evident surprise, she\ntold me she was learning much poetry now; and then, with the merriest\nlittle laugh, she ran off again to play.\n\nAnd _this_ was the child. All that brightness, all that intelligence,\n\"married to a god.\"\n\n_Now_ I understood the question she had asked me. She was an orphan, as\nwe afterwards heard, living in charge of an old aunt, who had some\nconnection with the temple. She must have heard her future being\ndiscussed, and not understanding it, and being frightened, had wondered\nif she might come to us. But they had taken their own way of reconciling\nher to it; a few sweets, a cake or two, and a promise of more, a vision\nof the gay time the magic word marriage conjures up, and the child was\ncontent to go with them, to be led to the temple--and left there.\n\nBut her people were so thoroughly refined and nice, so educated\ntoo,--could it be, _can_ it be, possibly true? Yes, it is true; this is\nHinduism--not in theory of course, but in practice. Think of it; it is\ndone to-day.\n\nA moment ago I looked up from my writing and saw the little Elf running\ntowards me, charmed to find me all alone, and quite at leisure for\nher. And now I watch her as she runs, dancing gleefully down the path,\nturning again--for she knows I am watching--to throw kisses to me. And I\nthink of her and her childish ways, naughty ways so often, too, but in\ntheir very naughtiness only childish and small, and I shiver as I think\nof her, and a thousand thousand as small as she, being trained to be\ndevil's toys. They brought one here a few days ago to act as decoy to\nget the Elf back. She was a beautiful child of five. Think of the shame\nof it!\n\nWe are told to modify things, not to write too vividly, never to harrow\nsensitive hearts. Friends, we cannot modify truth, we cannot write half\nvividly enough; and as for harrowing hearts, oh that we could do it!\nThat we could tear them up, that they might pour out like water! that we\ncould see hands lifted up towards God for the life of these young\nchildren! Oh, to care, and oh for power to make others care, not less\nbut far, far more! care till our eyes do fail with tears for the\ndestruction of the daughters of our people!\n\nThis photo is from death in life; a carcass, moving, breathing,\nsinning--such a one sits by that child to-day.\n\nI saw him once. There is a monastery near the temple. He is \"the holiest\nman in it\"; the people worship him. The day I saw him they had wreathed\nhim with fresh-cut flowers; white flowers crowned that hideous head,\nhung round his neck and down his breast; a servant in front carried\nflowers. Was there ever such desecration? That vileness crowned with\nflowers!\n\nI knew something about the man. His life is simply unthinkable. Talk of\nbeasts in human shape! It is slandering the good animals to compare bad\nmen to beasts. Safer far a tiger's den than that man's monastery.\n\nBut he is a temple saint, wise in the wisdom of his creed; earthly,\nsensual, devilish. Look at him till you feel as if you had seen him. Let\nthe photo do its work. It is loathsome--yes, _but true_.\n\nNow, put a flower in his hand--a human flower this time. Now put beside\nhim, if you can, a little girl--your own little girl--and leave her\nthere--_yes, leave her there in his hand_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nSkirting the Abyss\n\n          \"The first thing for us all is to _see_ and _feel_\n          the great need, and to create a sentiment among\n          Christian people on this subject. One of the\n          characteristics of this great system is its\n          secrecy--its subtlety. So few _know_ of the evils\n          of child-marriage, it is so hidden away in the\n          secluded lives and prison homes of the people. And\n          those of us who enter beyond these veils, and go\n          down into these homes, are so apt to feel that it\n          is a case of the inevitable, and nothing can be\n          done.\"\n                                     _Mrs. Lee, India._\n\n\nI HAVE been to the Great Lake Village to-day trying again to find out\nsomething about our little girl. I went to the Hindu school near the\ntemple. The schoolmaster is a friend of ours, one of the honourable men\nof the village from which they took that flower. He was drilling the\nlittle Brahman boys as they stood in a row chanting the poem they were\nlearning off by heart; but he made them stop when he saw us coming, and\ncalled us in.\n\nI asked him about the child. It was true. She was in the temple,\n\"married to the stone.\" Yes, it was true they had taken her there that\nday.\n\nI asked if the family were poor; but he said, \"Do not for a moment think\nthat poverty was the cause. Certainly not. Our village is not poor!\" And\nhe looked quite offended at the thought. I knew the village was rich\nenough, but had thought perhaps that particular family might be poor,\nand so tempted to sell the little one; but he exclaimed with great\nwarmth, Certainly not. The child was a relative of his own; there was no\nquestion of poverty!\n\nWe had left the school, and were talking out in the street facing the\ntemple house. I looked at it, he looked at it. \"From hence a passage\nbroad, smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to hell\"; he knew it well. \"Yes,\nshe is a relative of my own,\" he continued, and explained minutely the\ndegree of relationship. \"Her grandmother, whom you doubtless remember,\nis not like the ignorant women of these parts. She has learning.\" And\nagain he repeated, as if desirous of thoroughly convincing me as to the\nsatisfactory nature of the transaction, \"Certainly she was not sold. She\nis a relative of my own.\"\n\nA relative of his own! And he could teach his school outside those\nwalls, and know what was going on inside, and never raise a finger to\nstop it, educated Hindu though he is. I could not understand it.\n\nHe seemed quite concerned at my concern, but explained that for\ngenerations one of that particular household had always been devoted to\nthe gods. The practice could not be defended; it was the custom. That\nwas all. \"Our custom.\"\n\nA stone's-throw from his door is another child who is living a strangely\nunnatural life, which strikes no one as unnatural because it is \"our\ncustom.\" She is quite a little girl, and as playful as a kitten. Her\nsoft round arms and little dimpled hands looked fit for no harder work\nthan play, but she was pounding rice when I saw her, and looked tired,\nand as if she wanted her mother.\n\nWhile I was with her a very old man hobbled in. He was crippled, and\nleaned full weight with both hands on his stick. He seemed asthmatic\ntoo, and coughed and panted woefully. A withered, decrepit old ghoul.\nThe child stood up when he came in and touched her neck where the\nmarriage symbol lay. Then I knew he was her husband.\n\n                                      \"What,\n          No blush at the avowal--you dared to buy\n          A girl of age beseems your grand-daughter, like ox or ass?\n          _Are flesh and blood ware? are heart and soul a chattel?_\"\n\nYes! like chattels they are sold to the highest bidder. In that auction\nCaste comes first, then wealth and position. And the chattel is bought,\nthe bit of breathing flesh and blood is converted into property; and the\nliving, throbbing heart of the child may be trampled and stamped down\nunder foot in the mire and the mud of that market-place, for all anyone\ncares.\n\nIt is not long since a young wife came for refuge to our house. Three\ntimes she had tried to kill herself; at last she fled to us. Her husband\ncame. \"Get up, slave,\" he said, as she crouched on the floor. She would\nnot stir or speak. Then he got her own people to come, and then it was\nas if a pent-up torrent was bursting out of an over full heart. \"You\ngave me to him. You gave me to him.\" The words came over and over again;\nshe reminded them in a passion of reproach how, knowing what his\ncharacter was, they had handed her over to him. But we could hardly\nfollow her, the words poured forth with such fierce emotion, as with\nstreaming eyes, and hands that showed everything in gestures, she\nbesought them not to force her back. They promised, and believing them,\nshe returned with them. The other day when I passed the house someone\nsaid, \"Beautiful is there. He keeps her locked up in the back room now.\"\nSo they had broken their word to her, and given her back, body and soul,\nto the power of a man whose cruelty is so well known that even the\nheathen call him a \"demon.\" What must he be to his wife?\n\nAnd if that poor wife, nerved by the misery of her life, dared all, and\nappealed to the Government, the law would do as her people did--force\nher back again to him, to fulfil a contract she never made. Is it not a\nshame? Oh, when will the day come when this merchandise in children's\nsouls shall cease? We know that many husbands are kind, and many wives\nperfectly content, but sometimes we see those who are not, and there is\nno redress.\n\nAnother of our children sold by auction in the Village of the Lake is\none who used to be such a pretty little thing, with a tangle of curls,\nand mischievous, merry brown eyes. But that was five years ago. Then a\nfiend in a man's shape saw her, and offered inducements to her parents\nwhich ended in his marrying her. She was nine years old.\n\nOne year afterwards she was sent to her husband's home. His motives in\nmarrying her were wholly evil, but the child knew something of right and\nwrong, and she resisted him. Then he dragged her into an inner room, and\nhe held her down, and smothered her shrieks, and pressed a plantain\ninto her mouth. It was poisoned. She knew it, and did not swallow it\nall. But what she was forced to take made her ill, and she lay for days\nso dizzy and sick that when her husband kicked her as she lay she did\nnot care. At last she escaped, and ran to her mother's house. But the\nlaw was on her owner's side; what could she prove of all this, poor\nchild? And she had to go back to him. After that he succeeded in his\ndevil's work, and to-day that child is dead to all sense of sin.\n\nOh, there are worse things far than seeing a little child die! It is\nworse to see it change. To see the innocence pass from the eyes, and the\nchildishness grow into wickedness, and to know, without being able to\nstop it, just what is going on.\n\nI am thinking of one such now. She was four years old when I first began\nto visit in her grandmother's house. She is six now--only six--but her\ndemoralisation is almost complete. It is as if you saw a hand pull a\nrosebud on its stem, crumple and crush it, rub the pink loveliness into\npulp, drop it then--and you pick it up. But it is not a rosebud now. Oh,\nthese things, the knowledge of them, is as a fire shut up in one's\nbones! shut up, for one cannot let it all out--it must stay in and burn.\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nThose who know nothing of the facts will be sure to criticise. \"It is\nnot an unknown thing for persons to act as critics, even though\nsupremely ignorant of the subject criticised.\" But those who know the\ntruth of these things well know that we have understated it, carefully\ntoned it down perforce, because it cannot be written in full. It could\nneither be published nor read.\n\nIt cannot be written or published or read, but oh, it has to be lived!\n_And what you may not even hear, must be endured by little girls._ There\nare child-wives in India to-day, of twelve, ten, nine, and even eight\nyears old. \"Oh, you mean betrothed! Another instance of missionary\nexaggeration!\" We mean married.\n\n\"But of course the law interferes!\" Perhaps you have heard of the law\nwhich makes wifehood illegal under twelve. With reference to this law\nthe Hon. Manomoham Ghose of the High Court of Calcutta writes:--\"If the\nGovernment thinks that the country is not yet prepared for such\nlegislation\" (by which he means drastic legislation) \"as I suggest, I\ncan only express my regret that by introducing the present Bill it has\nindefinitely postponed the introduction of a substantial measure of\nreform, which is urgently called for.\"\n\nThere are men and women in India to whom many a day is a nightmare, and\nthis fair land an Inferno, because of what they know of the wrong that\nis going on. For that is the dreadful part of it. It is not like the\nburning alive of the widows, it is not a horror passed. It is going on\nsteadily day and night. Sunlight, moonlight, and darkness pass, the one\nchanging into the other; but all the time they are passing, this Wrong\nholds the hours with firm and strong hands, and uses them for its\npurpose--the murder of little girls. Meanwhile, what can be done by you\nand by me to hasten the day of its ending? Those who know can tell what\nthey know, or so much as will bear the telling; and those who do not\nknow can believe it is true, and if they have influence anywhere, use\nit; and all can care and pray! Praying alone is not enough, but oh for\nmore real praying! We are playing at praying, and caring, and coming;\nplaying at doing--if doing costs--playing at everything but play. We are\nearnest enough about that. God open our eyes and convict us of our\ninsincerity! burn out the superficial in us, make us intensely in\nearnest! And may God quicken our sympathy, and touch our heart, and\nnerve our arm for what will prove a desperate fight against \"leagu\u00e8d\nfiends\" in bad men's shapes, who do the devil's work to-day, branding on\nlittle innocent souls the very brand of hell.\n\nI have told of one--that little child who is now as evil-minded as a\nlittle child can be; she is only one of so many. Let a medical\nmissionary speak.\n\n\"A few days ago we had a little child-wife here as a patient. She was\nten or eleven, I think, just a scrap of a creature, playing with a doll,\nand yet degraded unmentionably in mind. . . . But oh, to think of the\nhundreds of little girls! . . . It makes me feel literally sick. We do\nwhat we can. . . . But what can we do? What a drop in the ocean it is!\"\n\nWhere the dotted lines come, there was written what cannot be printed.\nBut it had to be lived through, every bit of it, by a \"scrap of a\ncreature of ten or eleven.\"\n\nAnother--these are from a friend who, even in writing a private letter,\ncannot say one-tenth of the thing she really means.\n\n\"A few days ago the little mother (a child of thirteen) was crying\nbitterly in the ward. 'Why are you crying?' 'Because he says I am too\nold for him now; he will get another wife, he says.' 'He' was her\nhusband, 'quite a lad,' who had come to the hospital to see her.\"\n\nThe end of that story which cannot be told is being lived through this\nvery day by that little wife of thirteen. And remember that thirteen in\nIndia means barely eleven at home.\n\n\"She was fourteen years old,\" they said, \"but such a tiny thing, she\nlooked about nine years old in size and development. . . . The little\nmother was so hurt, she can never be well again all her life. The husband\nthen married again . . . as the child was ruined in health. . . .\"\nAnd, as before, the dots must cover all the long-drawn-out misery of\nthat little child who \"looked about nine.\"\n\n\"There is an old, old man living near here, with a little wife of ten or\neleven. . . . Our present cook's little girl, nine years old, has lately\nbeen married to a man who already has had two wives.\" In each of these\ncases, as in each I have mentioned, marriage means marriage, not just\nbetrothal, as so many fondly imagine. Only to-day I heard of one who\ndied in what the nurse who attended her described as \"simple agony.\" She\nhad been married a week before. She was barely twelve years old.\n\nWe do not say this is universal. There are many exceptions; but we do\nsay the workings of this custom should be exposed and not suppressed.\nQuestion our facts; we can prove them. To-day as I write it, to-day as\nyou read it, hundreds and thousands of little wives are going through\nwhat we have described. But \"described\" is not the word to\nuse--indicated, I should say, with the faintest wash of sepia where the\nthing meant is pitch black.\n\nThink of it, then--do not try to escape from the thought--English women\nknow too little, care too little--too little by far. Think of it. Stop\nand think of it. If it is \"trying\" to think of it, and you would prefer\nto turn the page over, and get to something nicer to read, _what must it\nbe to live through it_? What must it be to those little girls, so\nlittle, so pitifully little, and unequal to it all? What must it be to\nthese childish things to live on through it day by day, with, in some\ncases, nothing to hope for till kindly death comes and opens the door,\nthe one dread door of escape they know, and the tortured little body\ndies? And someone says, \"The girl is dead, take the corpse out to the\nburning-ground.\" Then they take it up, gently perhaps. But oh, the\nrelief of remembering it! It does not matter now. Nothing matters any\nmore. Little dead wives cannot feel.\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nI wonder whether it touches you? I know I cannot tell it well. But oh,\none lives through it all with them!--I have stopped writing again and\nagain, and felt I could not go on.\n\nMother, happy mother! When you tuck up your little girl in her cot, and\nfeel her arms cling round your neck and her kisses on your cheek, will\nyou think of these other little girls? Will you try to conceive what you\nwould feel _if your little girl were here_?\n\nOh, you clasp her tight, so tight in your arms! The thought is a\nscorpion's sting in your soul. You would kill her, smother her dead in\nyour arms, before you would give her to--_that_.\n\nTurn the light down, and come away. Thank God she is safe in her little\ncot, she will wake up to-morrow safe. Now think for a moment steadily of\nthose who are somebody's little girls, just as dear to them and sweet,\nneeding as much the tenderest care as this your own little girl.\n\nThink of them. Try to think of them as if they were your very own. They\nare just like your own, in so many ways--only their future is different.\n\nOh, dear mothers, do you care? Do you care very much, I ask?\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nWe passed the temple on our way home from the Village of the Lake. The\ngreat gate was open, and the Brahmans and their friends were lounging in\nand out, or sitting in the porch talking and laughing together. They\nwere talking about us as we passed. They were quite aware of our object\nin coming, and were pleased that we had failed.\n\nGovernment officials, English-speaking graduates, educated Hindus like\nour old friend the schoolmaster, all would admit in private that to take\na child to the temple and \"marry her\" there was wrong. But very few have\nmuch desire to right the shameful wrong.\n\nThere are thousands of recognised Slaves of the gods in this Presidency.\nUnder other names they exist all over India. There are thousands of\nlittle child-wives; fewer here than elsewhere, we know, but many\neverywhere. I do not for a moment suggest that all child-wives are\ncruelly handled, any more than I would have it thought that all little\ngirls are available for the service of the gods. Nor would I have it\nsupposed that we see down this hell-crack every day. We may live for\nyears in the country and know very little about it. The medical\nworkers--God help them!--are those who are most frequently forced to\nlook down, and I, not being a medical, know infinitely less of its\ndepths than they. But this I do know, and do mean, and I mean it with an\nintensity I know not how to express, _that this custom of infant\nmarriage and child marriage, whether to gods or men, is an infamous\ncustom; that it holds possibilities of wrong, such unutterable wrong,\nthat descriptive words concerning it can only \"skirt the abyss,\" and\nthat in the name of all that is just and all that is merciful it should\nbe swept out of the land without a day's delay_.\n\nWe look to our Indian brothers. India is so immense that a voice crying\nin the North is hardly heard in the South. Thank God for the one or two\nvoices crying in the wilderness. But many voices are needed, not only\none or two. Let the many voices cry! Every man with a heart and a voice\nto cry, should cry. Then all the cries crying over the land will force\nthe deaf ears to hear, and force the dull brains to think and the hands\nof the law to act, and something at last will be done.\n\nBut \"crying\" is not nearly enough. We look to you, brothers of India, to\n=do=. Get convictions upon this subject which will compel you to =do=.\nMany can talk and many can write, and more will do both, as the years\npass, but the crux is contained in the =doing=.\n\nGod alone can strengthen you for it. He who set His face as a flint, can\nmake you steadfast and brave enough to set your faces as flints, till\nthe bands of wickedness are loosed, and the heavy burdens are undone,\nand every yoke is broken, and the oppressed go free.\n\nIt will cost. It is bound to cost. Every battle of the warrior is with\nconfused noise and garments rolled in blood. It is only sham battles\nthat cost something less than blood. Everything worth anything _costs\nblood_. \"Reproach hath broken My heart.\" A broken heart bleeds. Is it\nthe reproach of the battle you fear? This fear will conquer you until\nyou hear the voice of your God saying, \"Fear ye not the reproach of men,\nneither be afraid of their revilings. . . . Who art thou that thou\nshouldest be afraid of a man that shall die, and the son of man that\nshall be made as grass, and forgettest the Lord thy Maker?\"\n\nThis book is meant for our comrades at home, but it may come back to\nIndia, and so we have spoken straight from our hearts to our Indian\nbrothers here. Oh, brothers, rise, and in God's Name fight; in His power\nfight till you win, for these, your own land's little girls, who never\ncan fight for themselves!\n\nAnd now we look to you at home. Will all who pity the little wives pray\nfor the men of India? Pray for those who are honestly striving to rid\nthe land of this shameful curse. Pray that they may be nerved for the\nfight by the power of God's right arm. Pray for all the irresolute. \"A\nsound of battle is in the land, . . . the Lord hath opened His armoury.\"\n\"Cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood.\" Pray for\nresolution and the courage of conviction. It is needed.\n\nAnd to this end pray that the Spirit of Life may come upon our Mission\nColleges, and mightily energise the Missionary Educational Movement,\nthat Hindu students may be won to out-and-out allegiance to Christ while\nthey are students, before they become entangled in the social mesh of\nHinduism. And pray, we earnestly plead with you, that the Christian\nstudents may meet God at college, and come out strong to fight this\nfiend which trades in \"slaves and souls of men\"--and in the souls of\nlittle girls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nFrom a Hindu Point of View\n\n          \"The Lord preserve us from innovations foreign to\n          the true principles of the Protestant Church, and\n          foreign to the principles of the C.M.S. Pictures,\n          crosses, and banners, with processions, would do\n          great harm. The Mohammedan natives would say,\n          'Wah! you worship idols as the Hindus do, and have\n          taziyas (processions) as well as the Mohammedans!'\n          And our Christians would mourn over such things.\"\n                                _Rev. C. B. Leupolt, India._\n\n\nI AM sitting in the north-west corner of the verandah of a little\nmission bungalow, on the outskirts of a town sixteen miles south of our\nEastern headquarters. This is the town where they set fire to the\nschoolroom when Victory came. So far does Caste feeling fly. As you sit\nin the corner of this verandah you see a little temple fitted between\ntwo whitewashed pillars, roughly built and rudely decorated, but in this\nearly morning light it looks like a picture set in a frame. It is just\noutside the compound, so near that you see it in all its detail of\ncolour; the sun striking across it touches the colours and makes them\nbeautiful.\n\nThere is the usual striped wall, red and white; the red is a fine\nterra-cotta, the colour of the sand. The central block, the shrine\nitself, has inlays of green, red, and blue; there is more terra-cotta in\nthe roof, some yellow too, and white. Beyond on either side there are\nhouses, and beyond the houses, trees and sky.\n\nIt is all very pretty and peaceful. Smoke is curling up in the still air\nfrom some early lighted fire out of doors; there are voices of people\ngoing and coming, softened by distance. There is the musical jingle of\nbullock bells here in the compound and out on the road, and there is the\ntwitter of birds.\n\nIn front of that temple there are three altars, and in front of the\naltars a pillar. I can see it from where I am sitting now, rough grey\nstone. Upon it, there is what I thought at first was a sun-dial, and I\nwondered what it was doing there. Then I saw it had not a dial plate;\nonly a strong cross-bar of wood, and the index finger, so to speak, was\nlonger than one would expect, a sharp wooden spike. As I was wondering\nwhat it was a passer-by explained it. It is not a sun-dial, it is an\nimpaling instrument. On that spike they used to impale alive goats and\nkids and fowls as offerings to the god Siva and his two wives, the\ndeities to whose honour the three altars stand before the little shrine.\nThe pillar on which stands this infernal spike has three circles scored\ninto it, sign of the three divinities.\n\n\"The impaling has stopped,\" say the people, greatly amused at one's\nhorror and distress, for at first I thought perhaps they still did it.\n\"Now we do not impale alive; the Government has stopped it.\" Thank God\nfor that! But oh, let all lovers of God's creatures pray for and hasten\nthe coming of our Lord Jesus Christ! Government may step in and stop the\npublic clubbing to death of buffaloes, and the impaling of goats and\nfowls in sacrifice, but it cannot stop the private cruelty, and the\nstill wider-spread indifference on the part of those who are not\nthemselves cruel; only the coming of Christ the Compassionate can do\nthat.\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\nThere was the sound of voices just then, as I wrote, many voices, coming\nnearer, shrill women's voices, cutting through one's thoughts, and I\nwent out to see what was going on.\n\nOn the other side of the road, opposite our gate, there is a huge old\ndouble tree, the sacred fig tree of India, intertwined with another--a\nreligious symbol to this symbol-loving people. Underneath is a stone\nplatform, and on it the hideous elephant-god. On the same side is a\nlittle house. A group of women were gathered under the shade near the\nhouse, evidently waiting for something or someone. They were delighted\nto talk.\n\nWe spent half an hour under the tree, and they listened; but we were\ninterrupted by some well-dressed Government officials with their coats,\nsashes, and badges, and one not strictly Governmental got up in a\nmarvellous fashion, and they joined the group and monopolised the\nconversation. I waited, hoping they would soon go away, and I listened\nto what they were saying.\n\n\"Yes! she actually appeared! She was a goddess.\" (\"A goddess! Oh!\" from\nthe women.) \"She came forward, moving without walking, and she stood as\na tree stands, and she stretched out her arms and blessed the people,\nand vanished.\"\n\nA woman pointed to me. \"Like her? Was she like her?\"\n\n\"Like her!\" and the Government official was a little contemptuous. \"Did\nI not say she was a goddess? Is this Missie Ammal a goddess? Is she not\na mere woman like yourselves, only white?\"\n\n\"_She_ also came from the bungalow,\" objected the woman rather feebly,\nfeeling public opinion against her.\n\n\"You oyster!\" said the official politely, \"because a Missie Ammal comes\nfrom the bungalow, does it prove that the goddess was a Missie Ammal?\"\nThe other women agreed with him, and snubbed the ignoramus, who retired\nfrom the controversy.\n\nThe story was repeated with variations, such a mixture of the probable\nwith the improbable, not to say impossible, that one got tangled up in\nit before he had got half through.\n\nJust then an ancient Christian appeared on the scene and quavered in, in\nthe middle of the marvel, with words to the effect that our God was the\ntrue God, and they ought to have faith in Him. It was not exactly _\u00e0\npropos_ of anything they were discussing, but he seemed to think it the\nright thing to say, and they accepted it as a customary remark, and went\non with their conversation. I asked the old worthy if he knew anything\nabout the story, and at first he denied it indignantly as savouring too\nmuch of idolatry to be connected with the bungalow, but finally admitted\nthat once in the dim past he had heard that an Ammal in the bungalow,\nwho was ill and disturbed by the tom-toms at night, got up and went out\nand tried to speak to the people. And the men, listening now to the old\nman, threw in a word which illumined the whole, \"It was a great\nfestival.\" I remembered that impaling stake, and understood it all. And\nin a flash I saw it--the poor live beast--and heard its cries. They\nwould wring her heart as she heard them in the pauses of the tom-tom.\nShe was ill, but she got up and struggled out, and tried to stop it, I\nam sure--tried, and failed.\n\nSeven thousand miles away these things may seem trivial. Here, with that\ngrey stone pillar full in view, they are real.\n\nI came back to the present. The women were still there, and more people\nwere gathering. Something was going to happen. Then a sudden burst of\ntom-toms, and a banging and clanging of all manner of noise-producers,\nand then a bullock coach drove up, a great gilded thing. It stopped in\nfront of the little house; someone got out; the people shouted, \"Guru!\nGreat Guru! Lord Guru!\" with wild enthusiasm.\n\nThe Guru was not poor. He had two carts laden with luggage--one item, a\ngreen parrot in a cage. Close to the cage a small boy was thundering\naway on a tom-tom, but it did not disturb the parrot. The people seemed\nto think this display of wealth demanded an apology. \"It is not his, it\nbelongs to his followers; he, being what he is, requires none of these\nthings,\" they said.\n\nI had to go then, and we started soon afterwards on our day's round, and\nI do not know what happened next; but I had never had the chance of a\ntalk with a celebrity of this description, and in the evening, on my\nhomeward way, I stopped before the little house and asked if I might see\nhim, the famous Guru of one of the greatest of South Indian Castes.\n\nThe Government officials of the morning were there, but the officialism\nwas gone. No coats and sashes and badges now, only the simple national\ndress, a scarf of white muslin. The one who in the morning had been an\nillustration of the possible effect of the mixture of East and West,\nstood in a dignity he had not then, a fine manly form.\n\nThe door was open, and they were sentry, for their Guru was resting,\nthey said. \"Then he is very human, just like yourselves?\" But the\nstrong, sensible faces looked almost frightened at the words. \"Hush,\"\nthey answered all in a breath, \"no such thoughts may be even thought\nhere. He is not just like us.\" And as if to divert us from the\nexpression of such sentiments, they moved a little from the door, and\nsaid, \"You may look, if you do not speak,\" and knowing such looks are\nnot often allowed, I looked with interest, and saw all there was to see.\n\nThe Guru was in the far corner resting; a rich purple silk, with gold\ninterwoven in borders and bands, was flung over his ascetic's dress. At\nthe far end, too, was a sort of altar, covered with red cloth, and on it\nwere numerous brass candlesticks and vessels, and on a little shelf\nabove, a row of little divinities, some brass ornaments, and flowers.\n\nTo the left of this altar there was a high-backed chair covered by a\ndeer skin; there were pictures of gods and goddesses round the room,\nespecially near the altar, and there were the usual censers, rosaries,\nand musical instruments, and there was the parrot.\n\nThe Government official pointed in, and said, with an air of pride in\nthe whole, and a certainty of sympathy too, \"There, you see how closely\nit resembles your churches; there is not so much difference between you\nand us after all!\"\n\nNot so much difference! There is a very great difference, I told him;\nand I asked him where he had seen a Christian church like this. He\nmentioned two. One was a Roman Catholic chapel, the other an English\nchurch.\n\nWhat could I say? They bear our name; how could he understand the\ndivisions that rend us asunder?--Romanists, Ritualists, and\nProtestants--are we not all called Christians?\n\nI looked again, and I could not help being struck with the resemblance.\nThe altar with its brasses and flowers and candlesticks, and the little\nshelf above; the pictures on the walls; the chair, so like a Bishop's\nchair of state; the whole air of the place heavy with incense, was\nredolent of Rome.\n\nHe went on to explain, while I stood there ashamed. \"Look, have you not\ngot that?\" and he pointed to the altar-like erection, with the red cloth\nand the flowers.\n\n\"We have nothing of the sort in our church. Come and see; we have only a\ntable,\" I said; but he laughed and declared he had seen it in other\nchurches, and it was just like ours, \"only yours has a cross above it,\nand ours has images; but you bow to your cross, so it must represent a\ndivinity,\" and, without waiting for any reply, he pointed next to the\npictures.\n\n\"They are very like yours, I think,\" he said, only yours show your God\non a cross, stretched out and dying--so\"--And he stretched out his\narms, and dropped his head, and said something which cannot be\ntranslated; and I could not look or listen, but broke in earnestly:\n\n\"Indeed, we have no such pictures--at least we here have not; but even\nif some show such a picture, do they ever call it a picture of God? They\nonly say it is a picture of\"--But he interrupted impatiently:\n\n\"Do not I know what they say?\" And then, with a touch of scorn at what\nhe thought was an empty excuse on my part, he added, \"We also say the\nsame\" (which is true; no intelligent Hindu admits that he worships idols\nor pictures; he worships what these things represent). \"Your people show\nyour symbols,\" he continued, in the tone of one who is sure of his\nground, \"exactly as we show ours. I have seen your God on a great sheet\nat night; it was shown by means of a magic lamp; and sometimes you make\nit of wood or brass, as we make ours of stone. The name may change and\nthe manner of making, but the thing's essence is the same.\"\n\n\"The Mohammedans do not show their God's symbol; but we do, and so do\nthe Christians. Therefore between us and the Christians there is more in\ncommon than between the Mohammedans and us.\" This was another Hindu's\ncontribution to the argument.\n\nThe chair now served as a text. \"When your Bishop comes round your\nchurches, does he not sit in a chair like that, himself apart from the\npeople? And in like manner our Guru sits. There is much similarity. Also\ndo not your Christians stand\"--and he imitated the peculiarly\ndeferential attitude adopted on such occasions by some--\"just in the\nfashion that we stand? And do not your people feel themselves blessed\nby the presence of the Great? Oh, there is much similarity!\"\n\nI explained that all this, though foolish, was not intended for more\nthan respect, and our Bishops did not desire it; at which he smiled.\nThen he went on to expatiate upon what he had seen in some of our\nchurches (probably while on duty as Government servant): the display, as\nit seemed to him, so like this; the pomp, as he thought it, so fine,\nlike this; the bowing and prostrating, and even on the part of those who\ndid not do these things, the evident participation in the whole grand\nshow. And the other men, who apparently had looked in through the open\nwindows and doors, agreed with him.\n\nHe is not the first who has been stumbled in the same way; and I\nremembered, as he talked, what a Mohammedan woman said to a friend of\nmine about one of our English churches, seen through her husband's eyes.\n\"You have idols in your church,\" she said, \"to which you bow in\nworship.\" She referred to the things on or above the Communion table. My\nfriend explained the things were not idols. \"Then why do your people bow\nto them?\" Was there nothing in the question?\n\nOften we wonder whether the rapid but insidious increase of ritual in\nIndia is understood at home. In England it is bad enough, but in a\nheathen and Mohammedan land it is, if possible, worse; and the worst is,\nthe spirit of it, or the spirit of tolerance toward it, which is on the\nincrease even in missionary circles. Some of our Tamil people attend the\nEnglish service in these \"advanced\" churches after their own service is\nover, and thus become familiarised with and gradually acclimatised to\nan ecclesiastical atmosphere foreign to them as members of a Protestant\nSociety.\n\nI remember spending a Sunday afternoon with a worthy pastor and his\nwife, stationed in the place where the church is in which the \"idols are\nworshipped\" according to the Mohammedans. When the bell rang for evening\nservice he began to shuffle rather as if he wanted me to go. But he was\ntoo polite to say so, and the reason never struck me till his son came\nin with an English Bible and Prayer-Book. The old man put up his hand to\nhis mouth in the apologetic manner of the Tamils. \"We do not notice the\nfoolish parts of the service. We like to hear the English. For the sake\nof the English we go.\"\n\n\"He did not turn to the East, but he did not keep quite straight; he\njust half turned.\" This from a pastor's wife, about one whom she had\nbeen observing during an ordination ceremony in the English cathedral.\n\"_He just half turned._\" It describes the nebulous attitude of mind of\nmany a one to-day. India has not our historical background. It has no\n_Foxe's Book of Martyrs_ yet. Perhaps that is why its people are so\nindifferent upon points which seem of importance to us. They have not\nhad to fight for their freedom, in the sense at least our forefathers\nfought; there is no Puritan blood in their veins; and so they are\nwilling to follow the lead of almost anyone, provided that lead is given\nsteadily and persistently; which surely should make those in authority\ncareful as to those in whose hands that lead is placed.\n\nBut the natural instinct of the converted idolater is dead against\ncomplexity in worship, and for simplicity. He does not want something\nas like his own old religion as possible, but as different as possible\nfrom it; and so we have good building material ready to hand, and a\nfoundation ready laid. \"But let every man take heed how he buildeth\nthereupon.\"\n\nI hope this does not sound unkind. We give those who hold different\nviews full credit for sincerity, and a right to their own opinions; but\nconvictions are convictions, and, without judging others who differ,\nthese are ours, and we want those at home who are with us in these\nthings to unite to help to stem the tide that has already risen in India\nfar higher than perhaps they know. Brave men are needed, men with a\nfuller development of spiritual vertebr\u00e6 than is common in these\neasy-going days, and we need such men in our Native Church. God create\nthem; they are not the product of theological colleges. And may God save\nHis Missions in India from wasting His time, and money, and men, on the\ncultivation of what may evolve into something of no more use to creation\nthan a new genus of jelly-fish.\n\nThe Government official and his friends were still talking among\nthemselves: \"Do we not know what the Christians do? Have we not ears?\nHave we not eyes? They do it in their way, we do it in ours. The thing\nitself is really the same. Yes, their religion is just like ours.\"\n\nThey could not see the vital difference between even the most vitiated\nforms of Christianity and their own Hinduism; there were so many\nresemblances, and these filled their mental vision at the moment. One\ncould hardly wonder they could not.\n\nThey turned to me again, and with all the vigour of language at my\ncommand I told them that neither we nor those with us ever went to any\nchurch where we had reason to think there would be an exhibition of\necclesiastical paraphernalia. We did not believe it was in accordance\nwith the simplicity of the Gospel; and I told them how simple the Truth\nreally was, but they would not believe me. Those sights they had seen\nhad struck them much as they struck the convert who described the\nConfirmation service thus: \"We went up and knelt down before a stick\"\n(the Bishop's pastoral staff). They had observed the immense attention\npaid to all these sacred trifles, and naturally they appeared to them as\nessential to the whole; part of it, nearly all of it, in fact; and even\nwhere the service was in the vernacular, their attention had been\nentirely diverted from the thing heard by the things seen.\n\nThen I thought of the description of a primitive Christianity service as\ngiven in 1 Corinthians. There the idea evidently was that if an outsider\ncame in, or looked in, as Hindus and Mohammedans so often look in here,\nhe should understand what was going on; and being convicted of his sin\nand need, should be \"convinced\"; \"and so, falling down on his face, he\nwill worship God, and report that God is in you of a truth.\" Compare the\neffect produced upon the minds of these Hindu men by what they saw of\nour services, with the effect intended to be produced by the Holy Ghost.\nCan we say we have improved upon His pattern?\n\nOh for a return to the simplicity and power of the Gospel of Christ!\nThen we should not roll stumbling-blocks like these in our Indian\nbrother's way. Oh for a return to the days of the beginning of the Acts\nof the Apostles, to obscurity, and poverty, and suffering, and shame,\nand the utter absence of all earthly glory, and the winning of souls of\na different make to the type thought sufficiently spiritual now! Oh for\nmore of the signs of Apostleship--scars, and the cross--the real\ncross--the reproach of Christ the Crucified,--no mitre here, but there\nthe crown!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nThough ye know Him not\n\n          \"I have known cases of young ministers dissuaded\n          from facing the missionary call by those who posed\n          as friends of Foreign Missions, and yet presumed\n          to argue: 'Your spiritual power and intellectual\n          attainments are needed by the Church at home; they\n          would be wasted in the Foreign Field.' 'Spiritual\n          power wasted' in a land like India! Where is it so\n          sorely needed as in a continent where Satan has\n          constructed his strongest fortresses and displayed\n          the choicest masterpieces of his skill?\n          'Intellectual ability wasted' among a people whose\n          scholars smile inwardly at the ignorance of the\n          average Western! Brothers, _if God is calling\n          you_, be not deterred by flimsy subterfuges such\n          as these. You will need the power of God the Holy\n          Ghost to make you an efficient missionary. You\n          will find your reputation for scholarship put to\n          the severest test in India. Here is ample scope\n          alike for men of approved spiritual power and for\n          intellectual giants. And so I repeat, _if God is\n          calling you_, buckle on your sword, come to the\n          fight, and win your spurs among the cultured sons\n          of India.\"\n                                  _Rev. T. Walker, India._\n\n\nTHE sensation you experience is curious when you rise from the study of\nSir Monier William's _Brahmanism and Hinduism_ and go out to your work,\nand meet in that work someone who seems to be quoting that same book,\nnot in paragraphs only, but in pages. He is talking Tamil, and the book\nis written in English; that is all the difference. He was standing by\nthe wayside when I saw him: we got into conversation.\n\nAt first he reminded me of a sea anemone, with all its tentacles drawn\ninside, but gradually one by one they came out, and I saw what he really\nwas; and I think the great Christian scholar, who laboured so hard to\nunderstand and translate into words the intricacies and mysteries of\nIndian thought, would have felt a little repaid had he known how his\nwork would help in the practical business of a missionary's life. Part\nof our business is to meet the mind with which we are dealing half-way\nwith quick comprehension. It is in this Sir Monier Williams helps.\n\nWhen once this man felt himself understood, his whole attitude changed.\nAt first, expecting, I suppose, that he was being mistaken for \"an\nignorant heathen\" and worshipper of stocks and stones, he hardly took\nthe trouble to do more than answer, as he thought, a fool according to\nhis folly. The tentacles were all _in_ then.\n\nBut that passed soon, and he pointed to the shed behind him, where two\nor three life-size idol horses stood and said how childish he knew it\nwas, foolish and vain. But then, what else could be done? Idols are not\nobjects of worship, and never were intended so to be; their only use is\nto help the uninitiated to worship Something. If nothing were shown\nthem, they would worship nothing; and a non-worshipping human being is\nan animal, not a man.\n\nHe went on to answer the objections to this means of quickening\nintelligent worship by explaining how, in higher and purer ways, the\nthinkers of Hinduism had tried to make the unthinking think. \"Look at\nour temples,\" he said. \"There is a central shrine, with only one light\nin it. The darkness of the shrine symbolises the darkness of the world,\nof life and death and being. For life is a darkness, a whirlpool of dark\nwaters. We stand on its edge, but we do not understand it. It is dark,\nbut light there must be; one great light. So we show this certainty by\nthe symbol of the one light in the shrine, in the very heart of our\ntemples.\"\n\nThis led on to quotations from his own books, questioning the validity\nof such lights, which he finished the moment one began them, and this\nagain led to our Lord's words,--how strong they sounded, and how\ndirect--\"_I am the Light of the World_.\" But he could not accept them in\ntheir simplicity, and here it was that the book I had been reading came\nin so helpfully. He spoke rapidly and eagerly, and such a mixture of\nSanscrit and Tamil that if I had not had the clue I am not sure I could\nhave followed him, and to have misunderstood him then might have driven\nall the tentacles in, and made it harder for the next one whom the\nSpirit may send to win his confidence.\n\nHe told me that, after much study of many religions, he held the eternal\nexistence of one, Brahma. The human spirit, he said, is not really\ndistinct from the Divine Spirit, but identical with it; the apparent\ndistinction arises from our illusory view of things: there is absolutely\nno distinction in spirit. Mind is distinct, he admitted, and body is\ndistinct, but spirit is identical; so that, \"in a definitely defined\nsense, I am God, God is I. The so-called two are one, in all essentials\nof being.\" And he touched himself and said, \"I am Brahma. I myself, my\nreal I, am God.\"\n\nIt sounds terribly irreverent, but he did not for a moment mean it so.\nGo back to Gen. ii. 7, and try to define the meaning of the words, \"the\nbreath of life,\" and you will, if you think enough, find yourself in a\nposition to understand how the Hindu, without revelation, ends as he\ndoes in delusion.\n\nBut, intertwined with this central fibre of his faith, there were\nstrands of a strange philosophy; he held strongly the doctrine of\nIllusion, by which the one impersonal Spirit, \"in the illusion which\noverspreads it, is to the external world what yarn is to cloth, what\nmilk is to curds, what clay is to a jar, but only in that illusion,\"\nthat is, \"he is not the actual material cause of the world, as clay of a\njar, but the illusory material cause, as a rope might be of a snake\";\nand the spirit of man \"is that Spirit, personalised and limited by the\npower of illusion; and the life of every living spirit is nothing but an\ninfinitesimal arc of the one endless circle of infinite existence.\"\n\nOf course there are answers to this sort of reasoning which are\nperfectly convincing to the Western, but they fail to appeal to the\nEastern mind. You suggest a practical test as to the reality or\notherwise of this \"Illusion\"--touch something, run a pin into yourself,\ndo anything to prove to yourself your own actuality, and he has his\nanswer ready. Though theoretically he holds that there is one, and only\none, Spirit, he \"virtually believes in three conditions of being--the\nreal, the practical, and the illusory; for while he affirms that the\none Spirit, Brahma, alone has a real existence, he allows a practical\nseparate existence to human spirits, to the world, and to the personal\nGod or gods, as well as an illusory existence. Hence every object is to\nbe dealt with practically, as if it were really what it appears to be.\"\n\nThis is only the end of a long and very confusing argument, which I\nexpect I did not half understand, and he concluded it by quoting a\nstanza, thus translated by Dr. Pope, from an ancient Tamil classic--\n\n          \"O Being hard to reach,\n           O Splendour infinite, unknown, in sooth\n           I know not what to do!\"\n\n\"He is far away from me,\" he said, \"a distant God to reach,\" and when I\nquoted from St. Augustine, \"To Him who is everywhere, men come not by\ntravelling, but by loving,\" and showed him the words, which in Tamil are\nsplendidly negative, \"He is NOT far from every one of us,\" he eluded the\ncomfort and went back to the old question, \"What is Truth? How can one\nprove what is Truth?\"\n\nThere is an Indian story of a queen who \"proved the truth by tasting the\nfood.\" The story tells how her husband, who dearly loved her, and whom\nshe dearly loved, lost his kingdom, wandered away with his queen into\nthe forest, left her there as she slept, hoping she would fare better\nwithout him, and followed her long afterwards to her father's court,\ndeformed, disguised, a servant among servants, a _cook_. Then her\nmaidens came to her, told her of the wonderful cooking, magical in\nmanner, marvellous in flavour and in fragrance. They are sure it is the\nlong-lost king come back to her, and they bid her believe and rejoice.\nBut the queen fears it may not be true. She must prove it, she must\ntaste the food. They bring her some. _She tastes, and knows._ And the\nstory ends in joy. \"Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good.\" \"If any\nman will do His Will, he shall know.\"\n\nWe got closer in thought after this. For the Oriental, a story is an\nilluminating thing. \"I have sought for the way of truth,\" he said, \"and\nsought for the way of light and life. Behind me, as I look, there is\ndarkness. Before me there is only the Unknown.\" And then, with an\nearnestness I cannot describe, he said, \"I worship Him I know not, _the\nUnknown God_.\" \"Whom, therefore, ye worship, though ye know Him not, Him\ndeclare I unto you.\" One could only press home God's own answer to his\nwords.\n\nOne other verse held him in its power before I went: \"I am the Way, the\nTruth, and the Life.\" With those two verses I left him.\n\nIt was evening, and he stood in the shadow, looking into it. There was a\ntangle of undergrowth, and a heavy grove of palms. It was all dark as\nyou looked in. Behind was the shrine of the demon steeds, the god and\nhis wife who ride out at night to chase evil spirits away. Near by was\nan old tree, also in shade, with an idol under it. It was all in shadow,\nand full of shadowy nothings, all dark.\n\nBut just outside, when I went, there was light; the soft light of the\nafter-glow, which comes soon after the sun has set, as a sign that there\nis a sun somewhere, and shining. And I thought of his very last words to\nme, but I cannot describe the earnestness of them, \"_I worship the\nUnknown God_.\"\n\nFriends, who worship a God whom you _know_, whose joy in life is to know\nHim, will you remember and pray for that one, who to-day is seeking, I\nthink in truth, to find the Unknown God?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nHow Long?\n\n          \"I shivered as if standing in the neighbourhood of\n          hell.\"\n                                    _Henry Martyn, India._\n\n\nI HAVE come home from vainly trying to help another child. She had heard\nof the children's Saviour, and I think she would have come to Him, but\nthey suffered her not. She was, when I first saw her, sweet and\ninnocent, with eyes full of light, great glancing, dancing eyes, which\ngrew wistful for a moment sometimes, and then filled with a laugh again.\nShe told me her mother lived very near, and asked me to come and see\nher; so I went.\n\nThe mother startled me. Such a face, or such a want of a face. One was\nlooking at what had once been a face, but was now a strange spoiled\nthing, with strange hard eyes, so unlike the child's. There was no other\nfeature fully shaped; it was one dreadful blank. She listened that day,\nwith almost eagerness. She understood so quickly, too, one felt she must\nhave heard before. But she told us nothing about herself, and we only\nknew that there was something very wrong. Her surroundings told us\nthat.\n\nBefore we went again we heard who she was; a relative of one of our most\nhonoured pastors, himself a convert years ago. Then a great longing\npossessed us to try to save her from a life for which she had not been\ntrained, and especially we longed to save her little girl, and we went\nto try. This time the mother welcomed us, and told us how our words had\nbrought back things she had heard when she was young. \"But now it is all\ndifferent, for I am different,\" and she told us her story. . . . \"So I\ntook poison, but it acted not as I intended. _It only destroyed my\nface_,\" and she touched the poor remnant with her hand, and went on with\nher terrible tale. There were people listening outside, and she spoke in\na hoarse whisper. We could hardly believe she meant what she said, as\nshe told of the fate proposed for her child. And oh, how we besought her\nthen and there to give up the life, and let us help her, and that dear\nlittle one. She seemed moved. Something awoke within her and strove.\nTears filled those hard eyes and rolled down her cheeks as we pleaded\nwith her, in the name of all that was motherly, not to doom her little\ninnocent girl, not to push her with her own hands down to hell. At last\nshe yielded, promised that if in one week's time we would come again she\nwould give her up to us, and as for herself, she would think of it, and\nperhaps she also would give up the life; she hated it, she said.\n\nThere was another girl there, a fair, quiet girl of fifteen. She was ill\nand very suffering, and we tried for her too; but there seemed no hope.\n\"Take the little one; you are not too late for her,\" the mother said,\nand we went with the promise, \"One more week and she is yours.\"\n\nThe week passed, and every day we prayed for that little one. Then when\nthe time came, we went. Hope and fear alternated within us. One felt\nsick with dread lest anything had happened to break the mother's word,\nand yet one hoped. The house door was open. The people in the street\nsmiled as we stopped our bandy, got out, and went in. I remembered their\nsmiles afterwards, and understood. The mother was there: in a corner,\ncrouching in pain, was the girl; on the floor asleep, _drugged_, lay the\nchild with her little arms stretched out. The mother's eyes were hard.\n\nIt was no use. Outside in the street the people sat on their verandahs\nand laughed. \"Offer twenty thousand rupees, and see if her mother will\ngive her to you!\" shouted one. Inside we sat beside that mother, not\nknowing what to say.\n\nThe child stirred in her sleep, and turned. \"Will you go?\" said the\nmother very roughly in her ear. She opened listless, senseless eyes. She\nhad no wish to go. \"She wanted to come last week,\" we said. The mother\nhardened, and pushed the child, and rolled her over with her foot. \"_She\nwill not go now_,\" she said.\n\nOh, it did seem pitiful! One of those pitiful, pitiful things which\nnever grow less pitiful because they are common everywhere. That\n_little_ girl, and this!\n\nWe took the mother's hands in ours, and pleaded once again. And then\nwords failed us. They sometimes do. There are things that stifle words.\n\nAt last they asked us to go. The girl in the corner would not\nspeak--could not, perhaps she only moaned; we passed her and went out.\nThe mother followed us, half sorry for us,--there is something of the\nwoman left in her,--half sullen, with a lowering sullenness. \"You will\nnever see her again,\" she said, and she named the town, one of the\nSodoms of this Province, to which the child was soon to be sent; and\nthen, just a little ashamed of her broken promise, she added, \"I would\nhave let her go, but _he_ would not, no, never; and she does not belong\nto me now, so what could I do?\" We did not ask her who \"he\" was. We\nknew. Nor did we ask the price he had paid. We knew; fifty rupees, about\nthree pounds, was the price paid down for a younger child bought for the\nsame purpose not long ago. This one's price might be a little higher.\nThat is all.\n\nWe stood by the bullock cart ready to get in. The people were watching.\nThe mother had gone back into the house. Then a great wave of longing\nfor that child swept over us again. We turned and looked at the little\nform as it lay on the floor, dead, as it seemed, to all outward things.\nOh that it had been dead! And we pleaded once more with all our heart,\nand once more failed.\n\nWe drove away. We could see them crowding to look after us, and we shut\nour eyes to shut out the sight of their smiles. The bullock bells\njingled too gladly, it seemed, and we shut our ears to shut out the\nsound. And then we shut ourselves in with God, who knew all about it,\nand cared. How long, O God, how long?\n\nAnd now we have heard that she has gone, and we know, from watching\nwhat happened before, just what will happen now. How day by day they\nwill sear that child's soul with red-hot irons, till it does not feel or\ncare any more. And a child's seared soul is an awful thing.\n\nForgive us for words which may hurt and shock; we are telling the day's\nlife-story. Hurt or not, shocked or not, should you not know the truth?\nHow can you pray as you ought if you only know fragments of truth? Truth\nis a loaf; you may cut it up nicely, like thin bread and butter, with\nall the crusts carefully trimmed. No one objects to it then. Or you can\ncut it as it comes, crust and all.\n\nThink of that child to-night as you gather your children about you, and\nlook in their innocent faces and their clear, frank eyes. Our very last\nnews of her was that she had been in some way influenced to spread a lie\nabout the place, first sign of the searing begun. I think of her as I\nsaw her that first day, bright as a bird; and then of her as I saw her\nlast, drugged on the floor; I think of her as she must be now, bright\nagain, but with a different brightness--not the little girl I\nknew--never to be quite that little girl again.\n\nOh, comrades, do you wonder that we care? Do you wonder that we plead\nwith you to care? Do you wonder that we have no words sometimes, and\nfall back into silence, or break out into words wrung from one more\ngifted with expression, who knew what it was to feel!\n\nWith such words, then, we close; looking back once more at that child on\nthe floor, with the hands stretched out and the heavy eyes shut--and we\nknow what it was they saw when they opened from that sleep--\n\n          \"My God! can such things be?\n           Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done\n           Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one,\n           Is even done to Thee?\n\n          .     .     .     .     .     .     .\n\n           Hoarse, horrible; and strong,\n           Rises to heaven that agonising cry,\n           Filling the arches of the hollow sky,\n           HOW LONG, O GOD, HOW LONG?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nWhat do we count them worth?\n\n          \"If we are simply to pray to the extent of a\n          simple and pleasant and enjoyable exercise, and\n          know nothing of watching in prayer, and of\n          weariness in prayer, we shall not draw down the\n          blessing that we may. We shall not sustain our\n          missionaries who are overwhelmed with the\n          appalling darkness of heathenism. . . . We must\n          serve God even to the point of suffering, and each\n          one ask himself, In what degree, in what point am\n          I extending, by personal suffering, by personal\n          self-denial, to the point of pain, the kingdom of\n          Christ? . . . It is ever true that what costs little\n          is worth little.\"\n                                _Rev. J. Hudson Taylor, China._\n\n\nSHE picked up her water-vessel, and stood surveying us somewhat\ncuriously. The ways of Picture-catching Missie Ammals were beyond her.\nAfterwards she sat down comfortably and talked. That was a year ago.\n\nThen in the evening she and all her neighbours gathered in the market\nsquare for the open-air meeting. Shining of Life spoke for the first\ntime. \"I was a Hindu a year ago. I worshipped the gods you worship. Did\nthey hear me when I prayed? No! They are dead gods. God is the living\nGod! Come to the living God!\"\n\nOne after the other the boys all witnessed that evening. Their clear\nboyish voices rang out round the ring. And some listened, and some\nlaughed.\n\n[Illustration: She picked up her water-vessel, and stood surveying us\nsomewhat curiously.]\n\nBehind us there was a little demon temple. It had a verandah barred down\nwith heavy bars. Within these bars you could see the form of an idol.\nBeside us there was a shrine. Someone had put our lanterns on the top of\nthis pyramid shrine. Before us there was the mass of dark faces. Behind\nus, then, black walls, black bars, a black shape; before us the black\nmeeting, black losing itself in black. Around us light, light shining\ninto the black. That was as it was a year ago. Now we are back at\nDohnavur, and almost the first place we went to was this village, where\nwe had taken the light and set it up in the heart of the dark. An\nearnest young schoolmaster had been sent to keep that light burning\nthere, and we went expectantly. Had the light spread? We went straight\nto our old friend's house. She was as friendly as ever in her queer,\nrough, country way, but her heart had not been set alight. \"Tell me what\nis the good of your Way? Will it fill the cavity within me?\" and she\nstruck herself a resounding smack in the region where food is supposed\nto go. \"Will it stock my paddy-pots, or nourish my bulls, or cause my\npalms to bear good juice? If it will not do all these good things, what\nis the use of it?\"\n\n\"If it is so important, why did you not come before?\" The dear old woman\nwho asked that lived here, and we searched through the labyrinthic\ncourtyards to find her, but failed. The girl who listened in her pain is\nwell now, but she says the desire she had has cooled. We found two or\nthree who seem lighting up; may God's wind blow the flame to a blaze!\nBut we came back feeling that we must learn more of the power of prayer\nourselves if these cold souls are to catch fire. We remembered how, when\nwe were children, we caught the sunlight, and focussed it, and set bits\nof paper on fire; and we longed that our prayers might be a lens to\nfocus the Love-light of our God, and set their souls on fire.\n\nJust one little bit of encouragement may be told by way of cheer.\nBlessing went off one day to see if the Village of the Warrior were more\nfriendlily inclined, and Golden went to the Petra where they vowed they\nwould never let us in. Before Blessing entered the village she knelt\ndown under a banyan tree, and, remembering Abraham's servant, prayed for\na sign to strengthen her faith that God would work in the place. While\nshe prayed a child came and looked at her; then seeing her pray, she\nsaid, \"Has that Missie Ammal sent you who came here more than a year\nago?\" Blessing said \"Yes.\" Then the child repeated the chorus we had\ntaught the children that first day. \"None of us forget,\" she said; and\ntold Blessing how the parents had agreed to allow us to teach if ever we\nshould return. The village had been opened. He goeth before.\n\nGolden's experience was equally strengthening to our faith. In the very\nstreet where they held a public demonstration to cleanse the road\ndefiled by our \"low-caste\" presence, twenty houses have opened, where\nshe is a welcome visitor. But all this is only for Love's sake, they\nsay. They do not yet want Christ; so let us focus the light!\n\nThen there is need for the fire of God to burn the cords that hold souls\ndown. There is one with whom the Spirit strove last year when we were\nhere. But a cord of sin was twined round her soul. She has a wicked\nbrother-in-law, and a still more wicked sister, and together they\nplotted so evil a plot that, heathen though she is, she recoiled, and\nindignantly refused. So they quietly drugged her food, and did as they\nchose with her. And now the knot she did not tie, and which she wholly\ndetested at first, seems doubly knotted by her own will. Oh, to know\nbetter how to use the burning-glass of prayer!\n\nThere may be a certain amount of sentiment, theoretically at least, in\nbreaking up new ground. The unknown holds possibilities, and it allures\none on. But in retracing the track there is nothing whatever of this.\nThe broad daylight of bare truth shows you everything just as it is.\nWill you look once more at things just as they are, though it is not an\ninteresting look.\n\nA courtyard where the women have often heard. May we come in? Oh yes,\ncome in! But with us in comes an old fakeer of a specially villainous\ntype. His body is plastered all over with mud; he has nothing on but\nmud. His hair is matted and powdered with ashes, his face is daubed with\nvermilion and yellow, his wicked old eyes squint viciously, and he shows\nall his teeth, crimson with betel, and snarls his various wants. The\nwomen say \"Chee!\" Then he rolls in the dust, and squirms, and wriggles,\nand howls; and he pours out such unclean vials of wrath that the women,\ncoerced, give him all he demands, and he rolls off elsewhere.\n\nNow may we read to the women? No! Many salaams, but they have no time.\nLast night there was a royal row between two friends in adjoining\ncourtyards, and family histories were laid bare, and pedigrees\ndiscovered. They are discussing these things to-day, and having heard it\nall before, they have no time to read.\n\nAnother courtyard, more refined; here the fakeer's opposite, a dignified\nascetic, sits in silent meditation. \"We know it all! You told us\nbefore!\" But the women are friendly, and we go in; and after a long and\nearnest talk the white-haired grandmother touches her rosary. \"This is\nmy ladder to heaven.\" The berries are fine and set in chased gold, but\nthey are only solidified tears, tears shed in wrath by their god, they\nsay, which resolved themselves into these berries. How can tears make\nladders to heaven? She does not know. She does not care. And a laugh\nruns round, but one's heart does not laugh. Such ladders are dangerous.\n\nAnother house; here the men are kind, and freely let us in and out. The\nWay, they say, is very good; they have heard the Iyer preach. But one\nday there is a stir in the house. One of the sons is very ill. He has\nbeen suffering for some time; now he is suddenly getting worse, and\nsuspicions are aroused. Then the women whisper the truth: the father and\nhe are at daggers drawn, and the father is slowly poisoning him--small\ndoses of strychnine are doing the work. The stir is not very violent,\nbut quite sufficient to make an excuse for not wanting to listen well.\nThis sort of thing throws us back upon God. Lord, teach us to pray!\nTeach us the real secret of fiery fervency in prayer. We know so little\nof it. Lord, teach us to pray!\n\n\"_Oh, Amma! Amma! do not pray! Your prayers are troubling me!_\"\n\nWe all looked up in astonishment. We had just had our Band Prayer\nMeeting, when a woman came rushing into the room, and began to exclaim\nlike this. She was the mother of one of our girls, of whom I told you\nonce before. She is still in the Terrible's den. Now the mother was all\nexcitement, and poured out a curious story.\n\n\"When you went away last year I prayed. I prayed and prayed, and prayed\nagain to my god to dispel your work. My daughter's heart was impressed\nwith your words. I cried to my god to wash the words out. Has he washed\nthem out? Oh no! And I prayed for a bridegroom, and one came; and the\ncart was ready to take her away, and a hindrance occurred; the marriage\nfell through. And I wept till my eyes well-nigh dissolved. And again\nanother bridegroom came, and again an obstacle occurred. And yet again\ndid a bridegroom come, and yet again an obstacle; and I cannot get my\ndaughter 'tied,' and the neighbours mock, and my Caste is\ndisgraced\"--and the poor old mother cried, just sobbed in her shame and\nconfusion of face. \"Then I went to my god again, and said, 'What more\ncan I offer you? Have I not given you all I have? And you reject my\nprayer!' Then in a dream my god appeared, and he said, '_Tell the\nChristians not to pray. I can do nothing against their prayers. Their\nprayers are hindering me!_' And so, I beseech you, stop your prayers for\nfourteen days--only fourteen days--till I get my daughter tied!\"\n\n\"And after she is tied?\" we asked. \"Oh, then she may freely follow your\nGod! I will hinder her no more!\"\n\nPoor old mother! All lies are allowed where such things are concerned.\nWe knew the proposed bridegroom came from a place three hundred miles\ndistant, and the idea was to carry the poor girl off by force, as soon\nas she was \"tied.\" We have been praying night and day to God to hinder\nthis. And He is hindering! But there is need to go on. That mother is a\ndevotee. She has received the afflatus. Sometimes at night it falls upon\nher, and she dances the wild, wicked dance, and tries to seize the girl,\nwho shrinks into the farthest corner of the little house; and she dances\nround her, and chants the chant which even in daylight has power in it,\nbut which at night appeals unspeakably. Once the girl almost gave way,\nand then in her desperation, hardly knowing the sin of it, ran to the\nplace where poison was kept, drank enough to kill two, straight off,\nthen lay down on the floor to die. Better die than do what they wanted\nher to do, she thought. But they found out what she had done, and\ndrastic means were immediately used, and the poison only made her ill,\nand caused her days of violent pain. So there is need for the hindering\nprayer. Lord, teach us how to pray!\n\nIs India crammed with the horrible? \"Picturesque,\" they call it, who\nhave \"done it\" in a month or two, and written a book to describe it. And\nthe most picturesque part, they agree, is connected with the temples.\n\nIndia ends off in a pointed rock; you can stand at the very point of the\nrock, with only ocean before you, and almost all Asia behind. A temple\nis set at the end of the point, as if claiming the land for its own. We\ntook our convert boys and girls to the Cape for the Christmas holidays,\nand one morning some of us spent an hour under an old wall near the\ntemple, which wall, being full of hermit crabs, is very interesting. We\nwere watching the entertaining ways of these degenerate creatures when,\nthrough the soft sea sounds, we heard the sound of a Brahman's voice,\nand looking up, saw this:\n\nA little group of five, sitting between the rocks and the sea, giving a\ntouch of life to the scene, and making the picture perfect. There were\ntwo men, a woman, a child, and the priest. They were all marked with the\nV-shaped Vishnu mark. The priest twined the sacred Kusa grass round the\nfingers of his right hand, and gave each a handful of grass, and they\ndid as he had done. Then they strewed the grass on the sand, to purify\nit from taint of earth, and then they began. The priest chanted names of\nGod, then stopped, and drew signs on the sand. They followed him\nexactly. Then they bathed, bowing to the East between each dip, and\nworshipping; then returned and repeated it all. But before repeating it,\nthey carefully painted the marks on their foreheads, using white and red\npigment, and consulting a small English hand mirror--the one incongruous\nbit of West in this East, but symbolical of the times. The child\nfollowed it all, as a child will, in its pretty way. She was a dainty\nlittle thing in a crimson seeley and many gold jewels. The elder woman\nwas dressed in dark green; the colouring was a joy to the eye, crimson\nand green, and the brown of the rock, against the blue of the sea.\n\nIt was one of those exquisite mornings we often have in the Tropics,\nwhen everything everywhere shows you God; shines the word out like a\nword illumined; sings it out in the Universe Song; and here in this\nSouth niche of Nature's cathedral, under the sky's transparency, these\nfive, in the only way they knew, acknowledged the Presence of one great\nGod, and worshipped Him. There was nothing revolting here, no hint of\nrepulsive idolatry. They worshipped the Unseen. Very stately the\nSanscrit sounded in which they chanted their adoration. \"King of\nImmensity! King of Eternity! Boundless, Endless, Infinite One!\" It might\nhave been the echo of some ancient Christian hymn. It might have been,\nbut it was not.\n\nThey are not worshipping God the Lord. _They might be, but they are\nnot._ Whose is the responsibility? Is it partly yours and mine? The\nbeauty of the scene has passed from us; the blue of the blue sky is\nblotted out--\n\n          \"Only like souls I see the folk thereunder,\n             Bound who should conquer, slaves who should be kings;\n           Hearing their one hope with an empty wonder,\n             Sadly contented with a show of things.\n\n           Then with a rush the intolerable craving\n             Shivers throughout me like a trumpet call:\n           Oh to save these! To perish for their saving,\n             Die for their life, be offered for them all!\"\n\nThe picture is made of souls--souls to be saved. \"Oh to save these! To\nperish for their saving!\" That is what the picture says. Picture! There\nis no picture. In the place where it was, there is simply a pain--God's\nworld, and God dishonoured in it! Oh to see these people as souls!\nRefined or vulgar, beautiful or horrible, or just dull, oh to see them\n\"only as souls,\" and to yearn over them, and pray for them as souls who\nmust live eternally somewhere, and for whom each of us, in our measure,\nis responsible to God. Do you say we are not responsible for those\nparticular souls? Who said that sort of thing first? \"Where we disavow\nbeing keeper to our brother we're his Cain.\" If we are not responsible,\nwhy do we take the responsibility of appealing to them in impassioned\npoetry?\n\n          \"Let every kindred, every tribe,\n             On this terrestrial ball,\n           To Him all majesty ascribe,\n             And crown Him Lord of all!\"\n\nWhat is the point of telling people to do a certain thing if we have no\nconcern in whether they do it or not? The angels and the martyrs and the\nsaints, to whom we appealed before, have crowned Him long ago. Our\nsinging to them on the subject will make no difference either way; but\nwhen we turn to every kindred and tribe, the case alters. How can they\ncrown Him Lord of all when they do not know about Him? Why do they not\nknow about Him? Because we have not told them. It is true that many whom\nwe have told heard \"their one hope with an empty wonder\"; but, on the\nother hand, it is true that the everlasting song rises fuller to-day\nbecause of those who, out in this dark heathendom, heard, and responded,\nand crowned Him King.\n\nBut singing hymns from a distance will never save souls. By God's grace,\ncoming and giving and praying will. Are we prepared for this? Or would\nwe rather sing? Searcher of hearts, turn Thy search-light upon us! Are\nwe coming, giving, praying _till it hurts_? Are we praying, yea\nagonising in prayer? or is prayer but \"a pleasant exercise\"--a holy\nrelief for our feelings?\n\nWe have sat together under the wall by the Southern sea. We have looked\nat the five as they worshipped Another, and not our God. Now let this\nlittle South window be like a little clear pane of glass, through which\nyou may look up far to the North, over the border countries and the\nmountains to Tibet, over Tibet and away through the vastness of Central\nAsia, on to China, Mongolia, Manchuria; and even then you have only seen\na few of the great dark Northern lands, which wait and wait--for you.\n\nAnd this is only Asia, only a part of Asia. God looks down on all the\nworld; and for every one of the millions who have never crowned Him\nKing, Christ wore the crown of thorns. What do we count these millions\nworth? Do we count them worth the rearrangement of our day, that we may\nhave more time to pray? Do we count them worth the laying down of a\nsingle ambition, the loosening of our hold on a single child or friend?\nDo we count them worth the yielding up of anything we care for very\nmuch? Let us be still for a moment and think. Christ counted souls worth\nCalvary. _What do we count them worth?_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nTwo Safe\n\n          \"God has given me the hunger and thirst for souls;\n          will He leave me unsatisfied? No verily.\"\n                                _James Gilmour, Mongolia._\n\n\n          \"That one soul has been brought to Christ in the\n          midst of such hostile influences is so entirely\n          and marvellously the Holy Spirit's work, that I am\n          sometimes overjoyed to have been in any degree\n          instrumental in effecting the emancipation of\n          one.\"\n                                   _Robert Noble, India._\n\n\nTWO of our boys are safe. They left us very suddenly. We can hardly\nrealise they are gone. The younger one was our special boy, the first of\nthe boys to come, a very dear lad. I think of him as I saw him the last\nevening we all spent together, standing out on a wave-washed rock, the\nwind in his hair and his face wet with spray, rejoicing in it all. Not\nanother boy dare go and stand in the midst of that seething foam, but\nthe spice of danger drew him. He was such a thorough boy!\n\nThe call to leave his home for Christ came to him in an open-air meeting\nheld in his village two years ago. Then there was bitterest shame to\nendure. His father and mother, aghast and distressed, did all they could\nto prevent the disgrace incurred by his open confession of Christ. He\nwas an only son, heir to considerable property, so the matter was most\nserious. The father loved him dearly; but he nerved himself to flog the\nboy, and twice he was tied up and flogged. But they say he never\nwavered; only his mother's tears he found hardest to withstand.\n\nWeeks passed of steadfast confession, and then it came to the place of\nchoice between Christ and home. He chose Christ, and early one morning\nleft all to follow Him. Do you think it was easy? He was a loving boy.\nCould it have been easy to stab his mother's heart?\n\nWhen the household woke that morning he was on his way to us. The father\ngathered his clansmen, and they came in a crowd to the bungalow.\n\nThey sat on the floor in a circle, with the boy in their midst, and they\npleaded. I remember the throb of that moment now. A single pulse seemed\nto beat in the room, so tense was the tension, until he spoke out\nbravely. \"I will not go back,\" he said.\n\nThey promised everything--a house, lands, his inheritance to be given at\nonce, a wife \"with a rich dowry of jewels\"--all a Tamil boy most desires\nthey offered him. And they promised him freedom to worship God; \"only\ncome back and save your Caste, and do not break your mother's heart and\ndisgrace your family.\"\n\nDay after day they came, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups, but the\nmother never came. They described her in heart-moving language. She\nneither ate nor slept, they said, but sat with her hair undone, and wept\nand wailed the death-wail for her son.\n\nAt last they gave up coming, and we were relieved, for the\nlong-continued strain was severe; and though he never wavered, we knew\nthe boy felt it. We used to hear him praying for his people, pouring out\nhis heart when he thought no one was near, sobbing sometimes as he named\ntheir names. The entreaty in the tone would make our eyes wet. If only\nhe could have lived at home and been a Christian there! But we knew what\nhad happened to others, and we dare not send him back.\n\nThen a year or so afterward we all went to the water together, and he\nand three others were baptised. The first to go down into the water was\nthe elder boy, Shining of Victory. Shining of Life was second. A few\nweeks of bright life--those happy days by the sea--and then in the same\norder, and called by the same messenger--the swift Indian messenger,\ncholera--they both went down into the other water, and crossed over to\nthe other side.\n\nShining of Life was well in the morning, dead in the evening. When first\nthe pain seized him he was startled. Then, understanding, he lay down in\npeace. The heathen crowded in. They could not be kept out. They taunted\nhim as he lay. \"This is your reward for breaking your Caste!\" they said.\nThe agony of cholera was on him. He could not say much, but he pointed\nup, \"Do not trouble me; this is the way by which I am going to Jesus,\"\nand he tried to sing a line from one of our choruses, \"My Strength and\nmy Redeemer, my Refuge--Jesus!\"\n\nHis parents had been sent for as soon as it was known that he was ill.\nThey hurried over, the poor despairing mother crying aloud imploringly\nto the gods who did not hear. He pointed up again; he was almost past\nspeech then, but he tried to say \"Jesus\" and \"Come.\"\n\nThen, while the heathen stood and mocked, and the mother beat her breast\nand wailed, and the father, silent in his grief, just stood and looked\nat his son, the boy passed quietly away. They hardly believed him dead.\n\nOh, we miss him so much! And our hearts ache for his people, for they\nmourn as those who have no hope. But God knows why He took him; we know\nit is all right.\n\nEvery memory of him is good. When the first sharp strain was over we\nfound what a thorough boy he was, and in that week by the sea all the\nlife and fun in him came out, and he revelled in the bathing and\nboating, and threw his whole heart into the holiday. We had many hopes\nfor him; he was so full of promise and the energy of life.\n\nAnd now it is all over for both. Was it worth the pain it cost? Such a\nshort time to witness, was it worth while?\n\nIt is true it was very short. Most of the little space between their\ncoming and their going was filled with preparation for a future of\nservice here. And yet in that little time each of the two found one\nother boy who, perhaps, would never have been found if the cost had been\ncounted too great. And I think, if you could ask them now, they would\ntell you Jesus' welcome made it far more than worth while.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nThree Objections\n\n          \"May I have grace to live above every human\n          motive; simply with God and to God, and not\n          swayed, especially in missionary work, by the\n          opinions of people not acquainted with the state\n          of things, whose judgment may be contrary to my\n          own.\"\n                                  _Henry Martyn, India._\n\n\nTHESE letters have been put together to help our comrades at home to\nrealise something of the nature of the forces ranged against us, that\nthey may bring the Superhuman to bear upon the superhuman, and pray with\nan intelligence and intensity impossible to uninformed faith. We have\nlong enough under-estimated the might of the Actual. We need more of\nAbraham's type of faith, which, without being weakened, considered the\nfacts, and then, looking unto the promise, wavered not, but waxed\nstrong. Ignorant faith does not help us much. Some years ago, when the\nfirst girl-convert came, friends wrote rejoicing that now the wall of\nCaste must give way; they expected soon to hear it had. As if a grain of\ndust falling from one of the bricks in that wall would in anywise shake\nthe wall itself! Such faith is kind, but there it ends. It talks of what\nit knows not.\n\nThen, as to the people themselves, there are certain fallacies which die\nhard. We read, the other day, in a home paper, that it was a well-known\nfact that \"Indian women never smile.\" We were surprised to hear it. We\nhad not noticed it. Perhaps, if they were one and all so abnormally\ndepressed, we should find them less unwilling to welcome the Glad\nTidings. Again, we read that you can distinguish between heathen and\nChristian by the wonderful light on the Christians' faces, as compared\nwith \"the sad expression on the faces of the poor benighted heathen.\" It\nis true that some Christians are really illuminated, but, as a whole,\nthe heathen are so remarkably cheerful that the difference is not so\ndefined as one might think. Then, again, we read in descriptive articles\non India that the weary, hopeless longing of the people is most\ntouching. But we find that our chief difficulty is to get them to\nbelieve that there is anything to long for. Rather we would describe\nthem as those who think they have need of nothing, knowing not that they\nhave need of everything. And again and again we read thrilling\ndescriptions of India's women standing with their hands stretched out\ntowards God. They may do this in visions; in reality they do not. And it\nis the utter absence of all this sort of thing which makes your help a\nnecessity to us.\n\nBut none of you can pray in the way we want you to pray, unless the mind\nis convinced that the thing concerning which such prayer is asked is\nwholly just and right; and it seems to us that many of those who have\nfollowed the Story of this War may have doubts about the right of\nit--the right, for example, of converts leaving their homes for Christ's\nsake and His Gospel's. All will be in sympathy with us when we try to\nsave little children, but perhaps some are out of sympathy when we do\nwhat results in sorrow and misunderstanding--\"not peace, but a sword.\"\nSo we purpose now to gather up into three, some of the many objections\nwhich are often urged upon those engaged in this sort of work, because\nwe feel that they ought to be faced and answered if possible, lest we\nlose someone's prevailing prayer.\n\nThe first set of objections may be condensed into a question as to the\nright or otherwise of our \"forcing our religion\" upon those who do not\nwant it. We are reminded that the work is most discouraging, conversions\nare rare, and when they occur they seem to create the greatest\nconfusion. It is evident enough that neither we nor our Gospel are\ndesired; and no wonder, when the conditions of discipleship involve so\nmuch. \"_We_ should not like strangers to come and interfere with our\nreligion,\" write the friends who object, \"and draw our children away\nfrom us; we should greatly resent it. No wonder the Hindus do!\" And one\nreader of the letters wrote that she wondered how the girls who came out\never could be happy for a moment after having done such a wrong and\nheartless thing as to disobey their parents. \"They richly deserve all\nthey suffer,\" she wrote. \"It is a perfect shame and disgrace for a girl\nto desert her own people!\"\n\nOne turns from the reading of the letter, and looks at the faces of\nthose who have done it; and knowing how they need every bit of\nprayer-help one can win for them, one feels it will be worth while\ntrying to show those who blame them why they do it, and how it is they\ncannot do otherwise if they would be true to Christ.\n\nThis objection as to the right or wrong of the work as a whole, leads to\nanother relating to baptism. It is a serious thing to think of families\ndivided upon questions of religion; surely it would be better that a\nconvert should live a consistent Christian life at home, even without\nbaptism, than that she should break up the peace of the household by\nleaving her home altogether? Or, having been baptised, should she not\nreturn home and live there as a Christian?\n\nLastly--and this comes in letters from those who, more than any, are in\nsympathy with us--why not devote our energies to work of a more fruitful\ncharacter? We are reminded of the mass-movement type of work, in which\n\"nations are born in a day\"; and often, too, of the nominal Christians\nwho sorely need more enlightenment. Why not work along the line of least\nresistance, where conversion to God does not of necessity mean fire and\nsword, and where in a week we could win more souls than in years of this\nunresultful work?\n\nWe frankly admit that these objections and proposals are naturally\nreasonable, and that what they state is perfectly true. It is true that\nwork among high-caste Hindus all over India (as among Moslems all over\nthe world) is very difficult. It is true that open confession of Christ\ncreates disastrous division in families. It is true there is other work\nto be done.\n\nEspecially we feel the force of the second objection raised. We fully\nrecognise that the right thing is for the convert to live among her own\npeople, and let her light shine in her own home; and we deplore the\nterrible wrench involved in what is known as \"coming out.\" To a people\nso tenacious of custom as the Indians are, to a nature so affectionate\nas the Indian nature is, this cutting across of all home ties is a very\ncruel thing.\n\nAnd now, only that we may not miss your prayer, we set ourselves to try\nto answer you. And, first of all, let us grasp this fact: it is not\nfair, nor is it wise, to compare work, and success in work, between one\nset of people and another, because the conditions under which that work\nis carried on are different, and the unseen forces brought to bear\nagainst it differ in character and in power. There is sometimes more\n\"result\" written down in a single column of a religious weekly than is\nto be found in the 646 pages of one of the noblest missionary books of\nmodern days, _On the Threshold of Central Africa_. Or take two typical\nopposite lives, Moody's and Gilmour's. Moody saw more soul-winning in a\nday than Gilmour in his twenty-one years. It was not that the _men_\ndiffered. Both knew the Baptism of Power, both lived in Christ and\nloved. But these are extremes in comparison; take two, both\nmissionaries, twin brothers in spirit, Brainerd of North America and\nHenry Martyn of India. Brainerd saw many coming to Jesus; Martyn hardly\none. Each was a pioneer missionary, each was a flame of fire. \"Now let\nme burn out for God,\" wrote Henry Martyn, and he did it. But the\nconditions under which each worked varied as widely spiritually as they\nvaried climatically. Can we compare their work, or measure it by its\nvisible results? _Did God?_ Let us leave off comparing this with\nthat--we do not know enough to compare. Let us leave off weighing\neternal things and balancing souls in earthly scales. Only God's scales\nare sufficiently sensitive for such delicate work as that.\n\nWe take up the objections one by one. First, \"_Why do you go where you\nare not wanted?_\"\n\nWe go because we believe our Master told us to go. He said, \"all the\nworld,\" and \"every creature.\" Our marching orders are very familiar. \"Go\nye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature.\" \"All the\nworld\" means everywhere in it, \"every creature\" means everyone in it.\nThese orders are so explicit that there is no room to question what they\nmean.\n\nAll missionaries in all ages have so understood these words \"all\" and\n\"every.\" Nearly seven hundred years ago the first missionary to the\nMoslems found no welcome, only a prison; but he never doubted he was\nsent to them. \"_God wills it_,\" he said, and went again. They stoned him\nthen, and he died--died, but never doubted he was sent.\n\nOur Master Himself went not only to the common people, who heard Him\ngladly, but to the priestly and political classes, who had no desire for\nthe truth. \"Ye will not come to Me that ye might have life,\" He said,\nand yet He gave them the chance to come by going to them. The words, \"If\nany man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink,\" were spoken to an\naudience which was not thirsting for the Gospel.\n\nSt. Paul would willingly have spent his strength preaching the Word in\nAsia, especially in Galatia, where the people loved him well; but he was\nunder orders, and he went to Europe, to Philippi, where he was put in\nprison; to Thessalonica, where the opposition was so strong that he had\nto flee away by night; to Athens, where he was the butt of the\nphilosophers. But God gave souls in each of these places; only a few in\ncomparison to the great indifferent crowd, but he would tell you those\nfew were worth going for. You would not have had him miss a Lydia, a\nDamaris? Above all, you would not have had him disobey his Lord's\ncommand?\n\nSo whether our message is welcomed or not, the fact remains we must go\nto all; and the worse they are and the harder they are, the more evident\nis it that, wanted or not, it is _needed_ by them.\n\nM. Coillard was robbed by the people he had travelled far to find. \"You\nsee we made no mistake,\" he writes, \"in bringing the Gospel to the\nZambesi.\"\n\nThe second objection is, \"_Why break up families by insisting on baptism\nas a_ sine qu\u00e2 non _of discipleship?_\"\n\nAnd again we answer, Because we believe our Master tells us to. He said,\n\"Baptising them in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the\nHoly Ghost.\" What right have we, His servants, to stop short of full\nobedience? Did He not know the conditions of high-caste Hindu life in\nIndia when He gave this command? Was He ignorant of the breaking up of\nfamilies which obedience to it would involve? \"Suppose ye that I am come\nto give peace on earth? I tell you nay, but rather division.\" And then\ncome words which we have seen lived out literally in the case of every\nhigh-caste convert who has come. \"For from henceforth there shall be\nfive in one house divided, three against two, and two against three.\nThe father shall be divided against the son, and the son against the\nfather; the mother against the daughter, and the daughter against the\nmother; the mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law, and the\ndaughter-in-law against her mother-in-law.\" These are truly _awful_\nverses; no one knows better than the missionary how awful they are.\nThere are times when we can hardly bear the pain caused by the sight of\nthis division. But are we more tender than the Tender One? Is our\nsympathy truer than His? Can we look up into His eyes and say, \"It costs\nthem too much, Lord; it costs us too much, to fully obey Thee in this\"?\n\nBut granted the command holds, why should not the baptised convert\nreturn home and live there? Because he is not wanted there, _as a\nChristian_. Exceptions to this rule are rare (we are speaking of Caste\nHindus), and can usually be explained by some extenuating circumstance.\n\nThe high-caste woman who said to us, \"I cannot live here and break my\nCaste; if I break it I must go,\" spoke the truth. Keeping Caste includes\nwithin itself the observance of certain customs which by their very\nnature are idolatrous. Breaking Caste means breaking through these\ncustoms; and one who habitually disregarded and disobeyed rules,\nconsidered binding and authoritative by all the rest of the household,\nwould not be tolerated in an orthodox Hindu home. It is not a question\nof persecution or death, or of wanting or not wanting to be there; it is\na question _of not being wanted there_, unless, indeed, she will\ncompromise. Compromise is the one open door back into the old home, and\nGod only knows what it costs when the choice is made and that one door\nis shut.\n\nThis ever-recurring reiteration of the power and the bondage of Caste\nmay seem almost wearisome, but the word, and what lies behind it, is the\none great answer to a thousand questions, and so it comes again and\nagain. In Southern India especially, and still more so in this little\nfraction of it, and in the adjoining kingdoms of Travancore and Cochin,\nCaste feeling is so strong that sometimes it is said that Caste is the\nreligion of South India. But everywhere all over India it is, to every\northodox Hindu, part of his very self. Get his Caste out of him? Can\nyou? You would have to drain him of his life-blood first.\n\nIt is the strength of this Caste spirit which in South India causes it\nto take the form of a determination to get the convert back. Promises\nare given that they may live as Christians at home. \"We will send you in\na bandy to church every Sunday!\"--promises given to be broken. If the\nconvert is a boy, he may possibly reappear. If a girl--I was going to\nsay _never_; but I remember hearing of one who did reappear, after\nseventeen years imprisonment--a wreck. Send them back, do you say? Think\nof the dotted lines in some chapters you have read; ponder the things\nthey cover; then send them back if you can.\n\nThe third objection divides into two halves. The first half is, \"_Why do\nyou not go to the Christians?_\" To which we answer, we do, and for\nexactly the same reason as that which we have given twice before,\nbecause our Master told us to do so. Our marching orders are threefold,\none order concerning each form of service touched by the three\nobjections. The third order touches this, \"Teaching them to observe all\nthings whatsoever I have commanded you.\" So we go, and try to teach them\nthe \"all things\"; and some of them learn them, and go to teach others,\nand so the message of a full Gospel spreads, and the Bride gets ready\nfor the Bridegroom.\n\nThe second half of this last objection is, \"_Why not do easier work?_\nThere are so many who are more accessible, why not go to them?\" And\nthere does seem to be point in the suggestion that if there are open\ndoors, it might be better to enter into them, rather than keep on\nknocking at closed ones.\n\nWe do seek to enter the so-called open doors, but we never find they are\nso very wide open when it is known that we bring nothing tangible with\nus. Spiritual things are not considered anything by most. Still, work\namong such is infinitely easier, and many, comparatively speaking, are\ndoing it.\n\nThe larger number here are working among the Christians, the next larger\nnumber among the Masses, and the fewest always, everywhere, among the\nClasses, where conversion involves such terrible conflicts with the Evil\nOne, that all that is human in one faints and fails as it confronts the\ncost of every victory.\n\nBut real conversion anywhere costs. By conversion we mean something more\nthan reformation; _that_ raises fewer storms. The kind of work, however,\nwhich more than any other seems to fascinate friends at home is what is\nknown as the \"mass movement,\" and though we have touched upon it\nbefore, perhaps we had better explain more fully what it really is. This\nmovement, or rather the visible result thereof, is often dilated upon\nmost rapturously. I quote from a Winter Visitor: \"Christian churches\ncounted by the thousand, their members by the million; whole districts\nare Christian, entire communities are transformed.\" And we look at one\nanother, and ask each other, \"Where?\"\n\nBut to that question certain would answer joyously, \"Here!\" There are\nmissions in India where the avowed policy is to baptise people \"at the\noutset, not on evidence of what is popularly called conversion. . . . We\nbaptise them 'unto' the baptism of the Holy Spirit, and not because we\nhave reason to believe that they have received the Spirit's\nbaptism,\"--we quote a leader in the movement, and he goes on to say, if\nit is insisted \"that we should wait until this change (conversion) is\neffected before baptising them, we reply that in most cases we would\nhave to wait for a long time, and often see the poor creatures die\nwithout the change.\"\n\nOf course every effort is made by revival services and camp meetings to\nbring these baptised Christians to a true knowledge of Christ, and it is\nconsidered that this policy yields more fruit than the other, which puts\nconversion first and baptism second. It is certainly richer in\n\"results,\" for among the depressed classes and certain of the middle\nCastes, among whom alone the scheme can be carried out, there is no\ndoubt that many are found ready to embrace Christianity, as the phrase\ngoes, sometimes genuinely feeling it is the true religion, and desiring\nto understand it, sometimes for what they can get.\n\nIt must be admitted--for we want to state the case fairly--that a mass\nmovement gives one a splendid chance to preach Christ, and teach His\nGospel day by day. And the power in it does lay hold of some; we have\nearnest men and women working and winning others to-day, fruit of the\nmass movement of many years ago.\n\nBut on the whole, we fear it, and do not encourage it here. The dead\nweight of heathenism is heavy enough, but when you pile on the top of\nthat the incubus of a dead Christianity--for a nominal thing is\ndead--then you are terribly weighted down and handicapped, as you try to\ngo forward to break up new ground.\n\nSo, though we sympathise with everything that tends towards life and\nlight in India, and rejoice with our brothers who bind sheaves,\nbelieving that though all is not genuine corn, some is, yet we feel\ncompelled to give ourselves mainly to work of a character which, by its\nvery nature, can never be popular, and possibly never successful from a\nstatistical point of view, never, till the King comes, Whose Coming is\nour hope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\"Show me Thy Glory!\"\n\n          \"Yesterday I was called to see a patient, a young\n          woman who had been suffering terribly for three\n          days. It was the saddest case I ever saw in my\n          life. . . . I had to leave her to die. . . . The\n          experience was such a terrible one that, old and\n          accustomed surgeon as I am, I have been quite\n          upset by it ever since. As long as I live the\n          memory of that scene will cling to me.\"\n                                _A Chinese Missionary._\n\n          \"If we refuse to be corns of wheat falling into\n          the ground and dying; if we will neither sacrifice\n          prospects nor risk character and property and\n          health, nor, when we are called, relinquish home\n          and break family ties, for Christ's sake and His\n          Gospel, then we shall abide alone.\"\n                             _Thomas Gajetan Ragland, India._\n\n          \"Not mere pity for dead souls, but a passion for\n          the Glory of God, is what we need to hold us on to\n          Victory.\"\n                                _Miss Lilias Trotter, Africa._\n\n\nWE are all familiar with the facts and figures which stand for so much\nmore than we realise. We can repeat glibly enough that there are nearly\none thousand, five hundred million people in the world, and that of\nthese nearly one thousand million are heathen or Mohammedan. Perhaps we\ncan divide this unthinkable mass into comprehensible figures. We can\ntell everyone who is interested in hearing it, that of this one thousand\nmillion, two hundred million are Mohammedans; two hundred million more\nare Hindus; four hundred and thirty million are Buddhists and\nConfucianists; and more than one hundred and fifty million are Pagans.\n\nBut have we ever stopped and let the awfulness of these statements bear\ndown upon us? Do we take in, that we are talking about immortal souls?\n\nWe quote someone's computation that every day ninety-six thousand people\ndie without Christ. Have we ever for one hour sat and thought about it?\nHave we thought of it for half an hour, for a quarter of an hour, for\nfive unbroken minutes? I go further, and I ask you, have you ever sat\nstill for one whole minute and counted by the ticking of your watch,\nwhile soul after soul passes out alone into eternity?\n\n. . . I have done it. It is awful. At the lowest computation, sixty-six\nfor whom Christ died have died since I wrote \"eternity.\"\n\n\"Oh my God! my God! Men are perishing, and I take no heed!\" . . .\n\nSixty-six more have gone. Oh, how can one keep so calm? Death seems\nracing with the minute hand of my watch. I feel like stopping that\nterrible run of the minute hand. Round and round it goes, and every time\nit goes round, sixty-six people die.\n\nI have just heard of the dying of one of the sixty-six. We knew her\nwell. She was a widow; she had no protectors, and an unprotected widow\nin India stands in a dangerous place. We knew it, and tried to persuade\nher to take refuge in Jesus. She listened, almost decided, then drew\nback; afterwards we found out why. You have seen the picture of a man\nsucked under sea by an octopus; it was like that. You have imagined the\ndeath-struggle; it was like that. But it all went on under the surface\nof the water, there was nothing seen above, till perhaps a bubble rose\nslowly and broke; it was like that. One day, in the broad noontide, a\nwoman suddenly fell in the street. Someone carried her into a house, but\nshe was dead, and those who saw that body saw the marks of the struggle\nupon it. The village life flowed on as before; only a few who knew her\nknew she had murdered her body to cover the murder of her soul. We had\ncome too late for her.\n\nLast week I stood in a house where another of those sixty-six had\npassed. Crouching on the floor, with her knees drawn up and her head on\nher knees, a woman began to tell me about it. \"She was my younger\nsister. My mother gave us to two brothers\"--and she stopped. I knew who\nthe brothers were. I had seen them yesterday--two handsome high-caste\nHindus. We had visited their wives, little knowing. The woman said no\nmore; she could not. She just shuddered and hid her face in her hands. A\nneighbour finished the story. Something went wrong with the girl. They\ncalled in the barber's wife--the only woman's doctor known in these\nparts. She did her business ignorantly. The girl died in fearful pain.\nHindu women are inured to sickening sights, but this girl's death was so\nterrible that the elder sister has never recovered from the shock of\nseeing it. There she sits, they tell me, all day long, crouching on the\nfloor, mute.\n\nAll do not pass like that; some pass very quietly, there are no bands in\ntheir death; and some are innocent children--thank God for the comfort\nof that! But it must never be forgotten that the heathen sin against\nthe light they have; their lives witness against them. They know they\nsin, and they fear death. An Indian Christian doctor, practising in one\nof our Hindu towns, told me that he could not speak of what he had seen\nand heard at the deathbeds of some of his patients.\n\nA girl came in a moment ago, and I told her what I was doing. Then I\nshowed her the diagram of the Wedge; the great black disc for\nheathendom, and the narrow white slit for the converts won. She looked\nat it amazed. Then she slowly traced her finger round the disc, and she\npointed to the narrow slit, and her tears came dropping down on it. \"Oh,\nwhat must Jesus feel!\" she said. \"_Oh, what must Jesus feel!_\" She is\nonly a common village girl, she has been a Christian only a year; but it\ntouched her to the quick to see that great black blot.\n\nI know there are those who care at home, but do all who care, care\ndeeply enough? Do they feel as Jesus feels? And if they do, are they\ngiving their own? They are helping to send out others, perhaps; but are\nthey giving their own?\n\n_Oh, are they truly giving themselves?_ There must be more giving of\nourselves if that wedge is to be widened in the disc. Some who care are\nyoung, and life is all before them, and the question that presses now is\nthis: Where is that life to be spent? Some are too old to come, but they\nhave those whom they might send, if only they would strip themselves for\nJesus' sake.\n\nMothers and fathers, have you sympathy with Jesus? Are you willing to be\nlonely for a few brief years, that all through eternal ages He may have\nmore over whom to rejoice, and you with Him? He may be coming very soon,\nand the little interval that remains, holds our last chance certainly to\nsuffer for His sake, and possibly our last to win jewels for His crown.\nOh, the unworked jewel-mines of heathendom! Oh, the joy His own are\nmissing if they lose this one last chance!\n\nSometimes we think that if the need were more clearly seen, something\nmore would be done. Means would be devised; two or three like-minded\nwould live together, so as to save expenses, and set a child free who\nmust otherwise stay for the sake of one of the three. Workers abroad can\nlive together, sinking self and its likes and dislikes for the sake of\nthe Cause that stands first. But if such an innovation is impossible at\nhome, something else will be planned, by which more will be spared, when\nthose who love our God love Him well enough to put His interests first.\n\"Worthy is the Lamb to receive!\" Oh, we say it, and we pray it! Do we\nact as if we meant it? Fathers and mothers, is He not worthy? Givers,\nwho have given your All, have you not found Him worthy?\n\n\"Bare figures overwhelmed me,\" said one, as he told how he had been led\nto come out; \"I was fairly staggered as I read that twenty-eight\nthousand a day in India alone, go to their death without Christ. And I\nquestioned, Do we believe it? Do we really believe it? What narcotic has\nSatan injected into our systems that this awful, woeful, tremendous fact\ndoes not startle us out of our lethargy, our frightful neglect of human\nsouls?\"\n\nThere is a river flowing through this District. It rises in the Western\nGhauts, and flows for the greater part of the year a placid, shallow\nstream. But when the monsoon rains overflow the watersheds, it fills\nwith a sudden, magnificent rush; you can hear it a mile away.\n\nOut in the sandy river bed a number of high stone platforms are built,\nwhich are used by travellers as resting-places when the river is low.\nSome years ago a party of labourers, being belated, decided to sleep on\none of these platforms; for though the rainy season was due, the river\nwas very low. But in the night the river rose. It swept them on their\nhold on the stone. It whirled them down in the dark to the sea.\n\nSuppose that, knowing, as they did not, that the rain had begun to fall\non the hills, and the river was sure to fill, you had chanced to pass\nwhen those labourers were settling down for the night, would you,\n_could_ you, have passed on content without an effort to tell them so?\nWould you, _could_ you have gone to bed and slept in perfect\ntranquillity while those men and women whom you had seen were out in the\nriver bed?\n\nIf you had, the thunder of the river would have wakened you, and for\never your very heart would have been cold with a chill chiller than\nriver water, cold at the thought of those you dared to leave to drown!\n\nYou cannot see them, you say. You can. God has given eyes to the mind.\n_Think_, and you will see. Then listen. It is God Who speaks. \"If thou\nforbear to deliver them that are drawn unto death, and those that are\nready to be slain; if thou sayest, 'Behold we knew it not,' doth not He\nthat pondereth the heart consider it, and He that keepeth thy soul, doth\nnot He know it? and shall not He render to every man according to his\nworks?\"\n\nOh, by the thought of the many who are drawn unto death, and the many\nthat are ready to be slain, by the thought of the sorrow of Jesus Who\nloves them, consider these things!\n\nBut all are not called to come! We know it. We do not forget it. But is\nit a fact so forgotten at home that a missionary need press it? What is\nforgotten surely is that the field is the world.\n\nYou would not denude England! Would England be denuded? Would a single\nseat on the Bishop's bench, or a single parish or mission hall, be left\npermanently empty, if the man who fills it now moved out to the place\nwhich no one fills--that gap on the precipice edge?\n\nBut suppose it were left empty, would it be so dreadful after all? Would\nthere not be one true Christian left to point the way to Christ? And if\nthe worst came to the worst, would there not still be the Bible, and\nability to read? Need anyone die unsaved, unless set upon\nself-destruction? If only Christians in England knew how to draw\nsupplies direct from God, if only those who cannot come would take up\nthe responsibility of the unconverted around them, why should not a\nparish here and there be left empty for awhile? Surely we should not\ndeliberately leave so very many to starve to death, because those who\nhave the Bread of Life have a strong desire for sweets. Oh, the\nspiritual confectionery consumed every year in England! God open our\neyes to see if we are doing what He meant, and what He means should\ncontinue! But some men are too valuable to be thrown away on the mission\nfield; they are such successful workers, pastors, evangelists, leaders\nof thought. They could not possibly be spared. Think of the waste of\nburying brain in unproductive sand! Apparently it is so, but is it\nreally so? Does God view it like that? Where should we have been to-day\nif He had thought Jesus too valuable to be thrown away upon us? Was not\neach hour of those thirty-three years worth more than a lifetime of\nours?\n\nWhat is God's definition of that golden word \"success\"? He looks at\nRoman Catholic Europe, and Roman and heathen South America, and\nMohammedan and heathen Africa and Asia, and many a forgotten place in\nmany a great land. And then He looks at us, and I wonder what He thinks.\nRagland, Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, after years of\nbrain-burying waste, wrote that He was teaching him that \"_of all plans\nfor securing success the most certain is Christ's own, becoming a corn\nof wheat, falling into the ground and dying_.\" If coming abroad means\nthat for anyone, is it too much to ask? It was what our dear Lord did.\n\nThis brings us to another plea. I find it in the verse that carves out\nwith two strokes the whole result of two lives. \"If any man's work\nabide. . . . If any man's work shall be burned.\" The net result of one\nman's work is gold, silver, precious stones; the net result of another\nman's work is wood, hay, stubble. Which is worth the spending of a\nlife?\n\nAn earnest worker in her special line of work is looking back at it from\nthe place where things show truest, and she says, \"God help us all! What\nis the good done by any such work as mine? 'If any man build upon this\nfoundation . . . wood, hay, stubble. . . . If any man's work shall be\nburned he shall suffer loss; but he himself shall be saved, yet so as by\nfire!' An infinitude of pains and labour, and all to disappear like the\nstubble and the hay.\"\n\nSuccess--what is it worth?\n\n                            \"I was flushed with praise,\n          But pausing just a moment to draw breath,\n          I could not choose but murmur to myself,\n          'Is this all? All that's done? and all that's gained?\n          If this, then, be success, 'tis dismaller\n          Than any failure.'\"\n\nSo transparent a thing is the glamour of success to clear-seeing\npoet-eyes, and should it dazzle the Christian to whom nothing is of any\nworth but the thing that endures? Should arguments based upon\ncomparisons between the apparent success of work at home as\ndistinguished from work abroad influence us in any way? Is it not very\nsolemn, this calm, clear setting forth of a truth which touches each of\nus? \"_Every man's work shall be made manifest, for the Day shall declare\nit, because it shall be revealed by fire, and the fire shall try every\nman's work of what sort it is._\" And as we realise the perishableness of\nall work, however apparently successful, except the one work done in the\none way God means, oh, does it not stir us up to seek with an intensity\nof purpose which will not be denied, to find out what that one work is?\nThe same thought comes out in the verse which tells us that the very\nthings we are to do are prepared before, and we are \"created in Christ\nJesus\" to do them. If this is so, then will the doing of anything else\nseem worth while, when we look back and see life as God sees it?\n\nIt may be that the things prepared are lying close at our hand at home,\nbut it may be they are abroad. If they are at home there will be settled\npeace in the doing of them there; but if they are abroad, and we will\nnot come and do them?--Oh, then our very prayers will fall as fall the\nwithered leaves, when the wind that stirred them falls, yea more so, for\nthe withered leaves have a work to do, but the prayers which are stirred\nup by some passing breeze of emotion do nothing, _nothing_ for eternity.\nGod will not hear our prayers for the heathen if He means us to be out\namong them instead of at home praying for them, or if He means us to\ngive up some son or daughter, and we prefer to pray.\n\nLord save us from hypocrisy and sham! \"Shrivel the falsehood\" from us if\nwe say we love Thee but obey Thee not! Are we staying at home, and\npraying for missions when Thou hast said to us \"Go\"? Are we holding back\nsomething of which Thou hast said, \"Loose it, and let it go\"? Lord, are\nwe utterly through and through true? Lord God of truthfulness, save us\nfrom sham! Make us perfectly true!\n\nI turn to you, brothers and sisters at home! Do you know that if God is\ncalling you, and you refuse to obey you will hardly know how to bear\nwhat will happen afterwards? Sooner or later you will know, yea burn\nthrough every part of your being, with the knowledge that you\ndisobeyed, and lost your chance, lost it for ever. For that is the awful\npart. It is rarely given to one to go back and pick up the chance he\nknowingly dropped. The express of one's life has shot past the points,\nand one cannot go back; the lines diverge.\n\n\"Some of us almost shudder now to think how nearly we stayed at home,\" a\nmissionary writes. \"Do not, I beseech you, let this great matter drift.\nDo not walk in uncertainty. Do not be turned aside. You will be\neternally the poorer if you do.\"\n\nIt may be you are not clear as to what is God's will for you. You are in\ndoubt, you are honest, but a thousand questions perplex you. Will you go\nto God about it, and get the answer direct?\n\nIf you are puzzled about things which a straightforward missionary can\nexplain, will you buy a copy of _Do Not Say_, and read it alone with\nGod? Let me emphasise that word \"alone.\" \"Arise, go forth into the\nplain, and I will there talk with thee.\" \"There was a Voice . . . when\nthey stood and had let down their wings.\"\n\nOh, by the thought of the Day that is coming, when the fire shall try\nall we are doing, and only the true shall stand, I plead for an honest\nfacing of the question before it is too late!\n\nBut this is not our strongest plea. We could pile them up, plea upon\nplea, and not exhaust the number which press and urge one to write. We\npass them all, and go to the place where the strongest waits: God's\nGlory is being given to another. This is the most solemn plea, the\nsupreme imperative call. \"Not mere pity for dead souls, but a passion\nfor the Glory of God, is what we need to hold us through to victory.\"\n\n\"I am the Lord, that is My Name, and My Glory will I not give to\nanother, neither My praise to graven images.\" But the men He made to\nglorify Him take His Glory from Him, give it to another; _that_, the sin\nof it, the shame, calls with a low, deep under-call through all the\nother calls. God's Glory is being given to another. Do we love Him\nenough to care? Or do we measure our private cost, if these distant\nsouls are to be won, and, finding it considerable, cease to think or\ncare? \"Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? Behold and\nsee\"--=\"They took Jesus and led Him away. And He, bearing His cross,\nwent forth into a place called the place of a skull . . . where they\ncrucified Him.\" . . . \"Herein is love.\" . . . \"God so loved the world.\"\n. . .= Have we petrified past feeling? Can we stand and measure now? \"I\nknow that only the Spirit, Who counted every drop that fell from the\ntorn brow of Christ as dearer than all the jewelled gates of Paradise,\ncan lift the Church out of her appreciation of the world, the world as\nit appeals to her own selfish lusts, into an appreciation of the world\nas it appeals to the heart of God.\" O Spirit, come and lift us into this\nlove, inspire us by this love. Let us look at the vision of the Glory of\nour God with eyes that have looked at His love!\n\nWe would not base a single plea on anything weaker than solid fact.\nSentiment will not stand the strain of the real tug of war; but is it\nfact, or is it not, that Jesus counted you and me, and the other people\nin the world, actually worth dying for? If it is true, then do we love\nHim well enough to care with the whole strength of our being, that\nto-day, almost all over the world, His Glory is being given to another?\nIf this does not move us, is it because we do not love Him very much, or\nis it that we have never prayed with honest desire, as Moses prayed, \"I\nbeseech Thee, show me Thy Glory\"? He only saw a little of it. \"Behold\nthere is a place by Me, and thou shalt stand upon a rock: and it shall\ncome to pass, while My Glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a clift\nof the rock, and will cover thee with My hand while I pass by.\" And the\nGlory of the Lord passed, and Moses was aware of something of it as it\npassed, but \"My face shall not be seen,\" And yet that little was enough\nto mark him out as one who lived for one purpose, shone in the light of\nit, burned with the fire of it--he was jealous for the Glory of his God.\n\nAnd we--\"We beheld His Glory, the Glory as of the only begotten of the\nFather, full of grace and truth\"; and we--we have seen \"the light of the\nknowledge of the Glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.\"\n\n\"While My Glory passeth by I will . . . cover thee . . . My face shall\nnot be seen.\" \"But we all with open face, reflecting, as in a mirror,\nthe Glory of the Lord, are changed\"--Are we? Do we? Do we know anything\nat all about it? Have we ever apprehended this for which we are\napprehended of Christ Jesus? Have we seen the Heavenly Vision that\nbreaks us down, and humbles us to hear the Voice of the Lord ask, \"Who\nwill go for Us?\" and strengthens us to answer, \"Here am I, send me,\" and\nholds us on to obey if we hear Him saying \"=Go=\"?\n\n\"I beseech Thee, show me Thy Glory!\" Shall we pray it, meaning it now,\nto the very uttermost? The uttermost may hold hard things, but, easy or\nhard, there is no other way to reach the place where our lives can\nreceive an impetus which will make them tell for eternity. The motive\npower is the love of Christ. Not our love for Him only, but His very\nlove itself. It was the mighty, resistless flow of that glorious love\nthat made the first missionary pour himself forth on the sacrifice and\nservice. And the joy of it rings through triumphantly, \"Yea, and if I be\npoured forth . . . I joy and rejoice with you all!\"\n\nYes, God's Glory is our plea, highest, strongest, most impelling and\nenduring of all pleas. But oh, by the thought of the myriads who are\npassing, by the thought of the Coming of the Lord, by the infinite\nrealities of life and death, heaven and hell, by our Saviour's cross and\nPassion, we plead with all those who love Him, but who have not\nconsidered these things yet, consider them now!\n\nLet Him show us the vision of the Glory, and bring us to the very end of\nself, let Him touch our lips with the live coal, and set us on fire to\nburn for Him, yea, burn with consuming love for Him, and a purpose none\ncan turn us from, and a passion like a pure white flame, \"a passion for\nthe Glory of God!\"\n\nOh, may this passion consume us! burn the self out of us, burn the love\ninto us--for God's Glory we ask it, Amen.\n\n\"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and\nwisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing . . . Blessing,\nand honour, and glory, and power be unto Him.\"\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\nSome Indian Saints\n\n\nTHERE was one--he has joined the company of Indian saints in glory\nnow--the poet of the Mission, and our friend,--one so true in all his\nways that a Hindu lad observing him with critical schoolboy eyes, saw in\nhim, as in a mirror, something of the holiness of God, and, won by that\nlook, became a Christian and a winner of souls. Some of the noblest\nconverts of our Mission are the direct result of that Tamil poet's life.\nThere is another; he is old, and all through his many years he has been\nknown as the one-word man, the man of changeless truth. He is a village\npastor, whom all the people love. Go into his cottage any time, any day,\nand you will find one and another with him, and you will see the old\nman, with his loving face and almost quite blind eyes, bending patiently\nto catch every word of the story they are telling, and then you will\nhear him advising and comforting, as a father would his child. For miles\nround that countryside the people know him, and he is honoured by Hindus\nand by Christians as India honours saints.\n\nI remember once seeing the poet and the pastor together. They belonged\nto widely different castes, but that was forgotten now. The two old\nwhite heads were bent over the same letter--a letter telling of the\ndefection of a young convert each had loved as a son, and they were\nweeping over him. It was the ancient East living its life before us: \"O\nmy son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O\nAbsalom my son, my son!\" But what made it a thing to remember in this\nland of Caste divisions, even among Christians, was the overflowing of\nthe love that made those two men one.\n\nThere are others. Money, the place it holds in a man's affections, is\nsupposed to be a fair test of character. We could tell of a lawyer who\nis losing money to-day rather than touch unrighteous gains; of a doctor\nwho gives to his church _till he feels_, and travels any distance to\nhelp the poor who cannot pay; of a peasant who risks a certain amount of\ninjury to his palms rather than climb them on Sunday; and in many an\nold-world town and village, dotted about on the wide red plain, we have\nsimple, humble, holy people, of whom the world knows nothing--pastors in\nlonely out-stations, teachers, and workers, and just ordinary\nChristians--who do the day's work, and shine as they do it. We think of\nsuch men and women when we hear the critic's cry, and we wish he could\nknow them as they are.\n\nIt is these men and women who ask us to tell it out clearly how sorely\nour Indian Church needs your prayers. They have no desire to hide\nthings. They speak straighter than we do, and far more strongly, and\nthey believe, as we do, that if you know more you will pray more.\n\n\n                        LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nObvious punctuation errors repaired.\n\nPage 146 was missing in the 1905 edition. The text was replaced from the\n1903 edition.","title":"Things as they are : $b Mission work in Southern India","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":89273}