Chapter VIII (1)

AT last, after a pause of silence, Bhola Náth thus spake:—"O mother and son! Two things are on my mind; of two things I have to tell you; one will cause you joy, the other will cause you grief. Of which shall I speak first?"

Then replied Matrá, "Father, this is a time of rejoicing, because we behold you again. Let your words, then, be of joy."

"Thou knowest, my son, that the debt which has pressed on thee has lain also as a weight on my heart. When, on leaving the service, I found myself entitled to a pension, I reasoned thus in my mind—'I am still a strong man; I can earn my living; what need is there to me of a pension? If I could change it for a sum large enough to pay off our debt at once, then would we be as free men, the mortgage would be off our land, and no money-lender could devour its produce year by year."

Sibbi and Matrá listened with intense interest.

"After turning over this matter much in my mind, I resolved to ask the advice of my colonel, and find from him if such a thing could be. The Colonel Bahadar * had shown me much favour since I had had the good fortune to save him from an enemy's sword. I went to his quarters, and made my salám, and told him of all our trouble."

* A title of respect.

"What said the Sahib Bahadar?" asked Matrá.

"He muttered to himself, 'Debt, debt; it is always the same story. Debt is the cancer that eats into the very life of this people.' Then said the sahib to me, 'How much does your family owe?'

"I replied, 'O my lord! The debt altogether is 500 rupees. It has been paid over and over again, but we could never clear off all at once; and where interest is fifty per cent.—'

"'Fifty per cent.!' exclaimed the sahib, looking more angry than I had ever seen him look before. 'This India is full of rogues, and their senseless victims, the zamindars!'

"So he strode several times up and down the room, as is the colonel's way when he is thinking. Then, after a while, he stopped straight before me.

"'Bhola Náth,' said he, 'you are a brave fellow and an honest man, and have done me a great service. I am loth that you should be all your life like a man with a halter round his neck. I will myself pay off your debt at once, but upon one condition.'"

Sibbi uttered a cry of delight, and Matrá eagerly said, "What was that one condition?" He feared that some very difficult thing, some lifelong task would be named.

"The one condition was, that neither I nor my son should ever go to a money-lender again."

"I would as lief go into the den of a hungry tiger!" exclaimed Matrá with vehemence. "Never, never again will I plunge into the bog of debt!"

The news just given by Bhola Náth caused great delight to his hearers. Matrá, remembered the words of Karim, which had seemed to him at the time like a mocking of his hopeless trouble—"How would you feel if you knew that your debt would be cleared off at once, and you be restored to your father, with peace and plenty before you?"

"And now perhaps it is better that I should tell you at once of what you will deem my evil tidings," said Bhola Náth.

"There can be no evil tidings for us now!" exclaimed the rejoicing Matrá.

"You are just reunited to a long-lost father. Would it be no sorrow to you to be separated from him again, and perhaps for ever?"

"Nothing shall separate us!" exclaimed Matrá.

"Nothing—but death," murmured old Sibbi.

"What if all the world should despise me, and abuse me, and cast me off?"

"Father! I would stand by you against all the world!" exclaimed the young zamindar.

"Then hear the truth at once," said Bhola Náth. "After three years of thinking, reading, praying, I have resolved to be baptised as a Christian!"

He looked as a brave man might do tied to a gun, when the match is brought to blow him to pieces. But there was not the loud explosion of grief and anger which he expected. Matrá looked on his father in mute surprise.

Sibbi muttered to herself, "Then I can keep my vow."

"What vow? What do you mean?" asked her son.

"When I prayed to the Christian's God to bring you back, I vowed that if He heard me, I would—" she dropped her voice to a faint whisper—"that I would throw our idol into the river!"

"Well done, brave mother!" exclaimed Bhola Náth, with an unutterable sense of relief, for he had dreaded more than anything else the grief and opposition of his parent. "And you, my son," he continued, turning towards Matrá, "will you despise me for changing a false religion for the only true one?"

"Father," replied the young zamindar, "I as yet know nothing of the Christian religion but a little which I have heard from a man at the station, who was a Mahomedan once. But you will teach me more. If I once saw my way to getting clear of the debt of sin as we are getting clear of the mortgage, let the Brahmins say what they may, I will never again worship any god but the God who has redeemed me from evil."

WE will not follow closely the events of the following days, weeks, and months. Bhola Náth sought out the native pastor of Banda, and had many interviews with him, as well as with his son's Christian friend, Karim. It was principally from the latter that Matrá received instruction, and from reading the New Testament with his father, when the work was done.

When it became known in the village that the sepoy had come back with new strange notions, that he no longer did pujá to the gods, nor feasted Brahmins, nor shouted "Rám! Rám!" bitter opposition was raised against him. Matrá and Sibbi came in for their full share of persecution. Their neighbours would not eat nor barter with them; the family were driven from the well; they were even pelted and beaten.

But blows and insults were not arguments, and the more Matrá contrasted the spirit of Hinduism with that of Christianity, the more he felt convinced that Karim and his father had found the true way of salvation. After the lapse of some months, the whole family—aged grandmother, brave father, and stalwart son—were baptised in a tank. Crowds of Hindus assembled to witness the baptism; some mocked, some abused the new converts, but in the hearts of many arose the thought, "Perhaps these honest Hindus have some good reason for changing their religion. Perhaps there is some truth in the Bible."

The family of Matrá were not long to be the only Christians in their village. As one torch lights another, so by their means gradually spread the knowledge of the Gospel.

Sibbi did not long survive her baptism. Receiving the Gospel simply, as a little child might do, she dropped peacefully asleep as her Missy Baba had done, feeling that she had a Heavenly Father, and that she was going to Him. The aged woman's body was not burned, but buried; it was laid like a seed in the ground, to rise again, even as the seed which the husbandman lays in the soil.

Matrá said, what he had never said when standing by a heathen's funeral pile, "We shall see her again in glory. Thanks to Him who died for sinners, we shall meet once more, never to be parted, in the presence of the God who is Love!"

THE VILLAGE AND THE CITY.

ACHHRUMAL, the bunniah, came from Kashi (Benares) to visit his kinsman, Nand Lál, who dwelt in a little village about twenty kos distant. The home of Nand Lál was close by a jungle, and in a lonely part of the country. Achhru had never visited the place before, and, with some contempt, contrasted the mud-built village with the tall buildings, the grand pagodas, the wide "ghats" (bathing-places) of his own large and beautiful city.

On the first morning after Achhru's arrival, Nand Lál asked him how he had slept during the night.

"How could I sleep, O brother!" cried Achhru. "The horrid noises which I heard so distracted me that I could scarcely close my eyes!"

"What noises?" inquired his cousin.

"First there was such a croaking of frogs from yon pond, that one might have thought that all the frogs in Bengal had come on pilgrimage to a sacred tank, and were crying 'Rám! Rám!' together. Then, as I was beginning to drop asleep, wild wailing yells came from the jungle, as if the place were haunted by demons!"

"Only the jackals," observed Nand Lál; "we so often hear the noise that we hardly heed it."

"That was not all," continued his cousin. "As I lay awake, listening to the yells of the jackals, I heard another horrible sound, which made my heart almost stand still. It was between a howl and a laugh!"

"A hyena has been prowling about," said Nand Lál. "Three kids were taken by it last week."

"When that horrible sound ceased," cried Achhru, "and the jackals had stopped their yelling, I was more troubled than ever, for my ear caught a sound which was, I am sure, the hissing of a serpent."

"There are many hereabouts," observed Nand Lál; "our people are often bitten by snakes when they go out in the jungle."

"I shall certainly not stay long in this dreadful place," thought the timid-hearted Achhru. And he suddenly remembered that there was to be a festival in honour of the goddess Lachmi, in Kashi, which he must certainly attend. He would therefore go back on that very day to the city.

Poor Nand Lál looked mortified and disappointed. "Why, brother!" he cried. "Thou hast had no time to take rest. Thou hast scarcely partaken of food in my house. After an absence of years, I had looked for a long visit, I had hoped that we should have passed weeks together!"

"We shall pass weeks, and months, too, if you will," cried Achhru, "but not in this noisy village. Come back with me to Kashi. You have never yet seen the holy city, or visited its thousands of shrines. Come and bathe in the sacred Ganges, and delight thy soul with such sights as have never met thine eyes before."

Nand Lál did not need much pressing, for he had often felt curiosity to visit Kashi, and bathe in the Ganges. His preparations were few, and speedily made. Nand Lál fastened up his cooking vessels in a little bundle, wrapped his blanket about him, put some "annas" into his hamarband, and told his wife to expect him back in a fortnight. Then he departed with his cousin.

Before the fortnight was over, however, Nand Lál found his way back to his secluded village beside the jungle. His wife welcomed him with gladness, for he was a good and gentle husband, and had never been known to beat her. Quickly she prepared the evening meal, and brought the hookah to refresh the weary traveller.

Neighbours, impelled by curiosity, came to visit Nand Lál; his wife asked him why he had returned before the appointed time.

"I could not stand the noises," replied Nand Lál, with a smile; "like my cousin Achhru, I did not like the croaking of frogs, the yelling of jackals, the howling of hyenas, the hissing of snakes."

"Why, surely Kashi is not like our jungle!" cried one of his friends.

"Not like our jungle, but a thousand times worse!" exclaimed Nand Lál.

"Explain your meaning," said his friend.

"O Nattu! The sounds of a large city are worse than any made by wild beasts," replied Nand Lál. "I have heard murmurs and complaining, the groanings of the poor, the grumbles of the rich that they are not richer. The voices of discontent are to me as the croaking of myriads of frogs."

"And your jackals, what are they?" asked Nattu, who began to see the meaning of his companion.

"I witnessed quarrelling and heard disputes. There were sellers and buyers in the bazaars abusing each other for a matter of a few pice, or even cowries, reviling each other's mothers, wives, and daughters, pouring out curses and threats; and I said to myself, 'The city has its jackals and hyenas as well as the jungle, to yell over their carrion prey.'"

"And your hissing serpents?" asked his friend. "Did you find them too in the city?"

"In the city—here—everywhere—for is there a spot in all Hindostan where the liar is not to be found? Speak not our children lies almost as soon as they can utter the name of father? But I had deemed that in a holy city I might find some who would speak the truth. Alas! The very air seemed filled with the hissing of falsehood. The bunniah lies, the beggar lies, the courtier lies, and the priest at the shrine tells the greatest lies of all. My heart grew sad, and I said to myself, 'If I could but hear of one man who keeps his lips pure from murmuring, abuse, and lying, I would go a hundred kos to prostrate myself before him, and put his foot on my head."

"Was there ever such a man?" said Nattu.

"Such was my thought," continued Nand Lál. "When passing through the bazaar one day I saw a crowd gathered together, and went up to the place in hope of seeing some 'tamasha' (show). In the midst of that crowd stood an earnest-looking man, with a book in his hand, who was addressing the people. I stood with the rest to listen, and I heard the preacher tell of One who 'did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth, who when He was reviled, reviled not again, when He suffered, He threatened not' (1 Pet. ii. 22, 23). I exclaimed to myself, 'Here must have been a perfect man He who thus governed His lips, He who was free from all guile, must have been a saint indeed! Such a one would I choose for my Goru!'"

"But perhaps the preacher was himself telling lies when he described such a Goru," observed one of the peasants.

"He spoke as one who believes what he teaches," was the reply of Nand Lál, "and I had occasion to see that, in one thing at least, he followed the example of his Master. Some of the crowd abused the preacher; some even pelted him with dust; but he spake not an angry word. Then I said to myself, 'As is Goru, so is disciple.' Since he is like the Holy One whom he preaches, in having on his tongue the law of kindness, so also he must surely be like Him in having lips free from guile."

"Perhaps the man was a 'Karáni'" (Christian), observed Nattu.

"He certainly is a follower of Him whom he called the Lord Jesus Christ," said Nand Lál. "He spake so much of his Master's purity, goodness, and gentleness, that my heart was melted within me. I desired to hear some of the gracious words which, as the preacher said, came from the Holy One's lips. I had my desire gratified. The man with the book, looking earnestly round at the crowd, repeated to them the invitation given, as he said, by his Master,—'Come to me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest' (Matt. xi. 28). O brothers! These words were to me as the note of the 'bul-bul' (nightingale) after the howling and cries and wild yells of the jungle! Discord seemed changed to music, tumult to peace. I listened as if I could listen for ever!"

"I would that I too had heard the preacher," said Nattu.

"Close to him was a lad selling books," continued Nand Lál. "After the preacher had finished his discourse, he advised the hearers to buy the Holy Gospels, which would tell them about the Heavenly Goru. The books cost but an 'anna' each [less than 1 ½ d.]. Even I was able to buy one, and I have it here in my bosom."

"Thou art something of a scholar, Nattu; thou wilt read it to us after the day's work is done," said one of his companions.

And so the first ray of light fell on the little mud-built village beside the jungle. The Gospel was read and re-read, till the pages of the little book would hardly hold together. A whole Testament was afterwards with some difficulty procured, through a peasant going to Kashi. What had been mocked at in the city was listened to with gladness by simple zamindars. And one of the first effects of receiving the Gospel of salvation was to be noticed in the conversation of those who had learned something of Him who had no guile in His mouth. Still round the village were the noises which had so disturbed Achhru Mal: the frogs croaked from the pond, the jackals yelled in the jungle, the serpents hissed in the long rank grass; but the tongues of peasants, and even the lips of their children, now spake the truth, and had learned, as it were, a new song, words of prayer and praise to God, words of kindness and love to man.

THE STRAIT GATE.

MANY hundred years ago, a king built a palace which was a miracle of beauty. The treasures stored up within were greater than man could count. The interior of the building was inlaid with jewels, and beside it the glories of the Taj Mahal would grow pale. The king did not wish so to shroud himself in his grandeur that his subjects should not have free access to him. He gave command that a door of his palace should be left constantly open, so that all, whether rich or poor, might be able to enter his presence. There was no bell placed on that door, no bar placed across, and no guard of sepoys denied admittance: a single porter waited within. But the door was exceedingly small, its height was as that of a child but seven years old.

But to that door came a noble of high rank, who proudly traced back his lineage to kings of old. He came mounted on an elephant in a howdah of carved sandal-wood, and the gilded trappings of the elephant glittered in the sunshine.

"How shall I enter the king's palace?" he said to one of his attendants. From his lofty height he had not even noticed the little door.

Then answered the porter from within, "This is the way, O descendant of monarchs! Your honour must descend from your howdah, and even, as doth the son of the humblest peasant, enter in by this door."

"I will not descend from my elephant, and put myself on a level with the low and the mean!" cried the noble. "There should be a loftier, more worthy door for those in whose veins runs the blood of princes!"

So, full of the pride of rank, he departed, never to enter the palace, or behold the glories within.

Then came a man bearing a large bundle of valuable goods, through which he hoped to become the most wealthy man in the city. He was so fearful of losing his treasure that he would entrust it to no one, lest some precious thing should be lost. But he desired to see the palace, and prostrate himself before the king.

Then said the porter within, "Lay down your burden, or give it to others, and enter in by this door."

The rich merchant looked at the door, then at the bundle, which he prized as much as his life. He shook his head, and, proud of his riches, turned away. He was never to enter the palace, or behold the glories within.

Then came a learned pundit, reading in a book as he walked along. He too intended to enter the presence of the king, and he believed himself, by reason of his learning, to be entitled to a high place at court. He was so buried in his book that when he reached the little door, he did not observe it, nor hear the invitation of the porter within.

Full of the pride of talent, he passed on, never to enter the palace, or to behold the glories within.

Then came a religious devotee, a very tall man, wrapped in a blanket. Many had been his austerities, terrible the penances which he had performed. He was believed to be a great saint; the people sought his blessing and dreaded his curse. He looked upon himself as the chosen of Heaven. The tall devotee walked up to the door and then paused. Said he, "How can I possibly pass through so low an entrance as this?"

"Thou who carriest thy head so high must stoop low," cried the porter within.

"What! I—deeply read in the mysteries of religion, I whose life is spent in holy meditation, bow down my head so low as to be of but the stature of a child! Let the wide doors of ivory be thrown open for me, or I care not to cross the threshold."

So, full of the pride of self-righteousness, the devotee passed on. He was never to enter the palace, or behold the glories within.

Then came a youth mounted on a white horse, and wearing a mantle stiff with gold. When he rode up to the door, he somewhat marvelled to see it so low, but he dismounted and approached it. The youth was as tall as the devotee, and though he stooped low and lower, he but struck his head in the attempt to pass through.

"The rich mantle hampers your movements," said the porter inside.

It had indeed caught on a nail, and was so thoroughly entangled that no efforts of the youth could release it.

He now hesitated, but only for a moment. Undoing the clasp which fastened the mantle round his neck, he left it behind, then falling on his knees, and so humbling himself to the stature of a child, in the attitude of a suppliant the youth entered the palace, and beheld the glories within.

The palace, O reader! is the religion taught by the Lord Jesus Christ. To the true believers who enter in, it presents treasures of grace, of joy, of glory, such as no pen can write, or tongue can speak, or mind conceive.

What are some of its treasures?

Free forgiveness of every sin, full acceptance with God, purity of life, gladness of heart, comfort in this world, and eternal joy hereafter.

But he who would enter must lay aside "pride," whether of birth, wealth, or talent. Above all, he must lay aside the pride of self-righteousness. The first step towards heaven is the knowledge of sinfulness. We must go down on our knees and pray,—

"God be merciful to me a sinner! Create in me a pure heart, O God! and
renew a right spirit within me!"

The Christian religion exalts God and humbles man. The Mahomedan trusts to enter paradise by the favour of his Prophet, and his own good works. He says, "Have I not observed the fasts, and prayed five times a day?"

The Hindu religion fosters pride in the Brahmin, and makes the favour of the gods an accident of birth. In his view, how can the Sudra or the Chumar enter like him the state of absorption which he tries to regard as bliss?

The Christian exalts God, for it shows Him to be perfectly holy, merciful, and just. And while God is exalted, the pride of man is humbled.

Is he puffed up because of lofty birth? Thus saith the Scriptures, "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return" (Gen. iii. 19).

Is he proud of his wealth? "We brought nothing into the world, and certainly we shall carry nothing out" (1 Tim. vi. 7).

Is he vain of his learning? "The wisdom of man is foolishness with God" (1 Cor. iii. 19).

Is he proud of his holiness and his good works? "The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked" (Jer. xvii. 9). "By the works of the law shall no man living be justified" (Gal. ii. 16).

If a man be saved from the just punishment of his sin, it is because our Substitute, Christ, hath borne that punishment on the cross. If a man be accounted righteous, it is because the Holy One hath clothed him in the robe of His own merits. If a man be admitted into heaven, it is because the Son of God hath purchased admittance for him by shedding His own precious blood. If a man be called to wear a crown of glory, it is because his Saviour wore a crown of thorns. Everything that is good in a Christian comes from the gift of God's Holy Spirit; his only plea for mercy is the spotless sacrifice—Christ; his only hope of acceptance with a holy God is that the Saviour died for sinners!

Therefore, O proud man! descend from thy height, and humble thyself in the dust. It is on thy knees, stooping to be as a little child, that thou mayst enter the spiritual palace, and behold the glories within. "Pride goeth before destruction, and a lofty spirit before a fall." "Before destruction the heart of man is haughty, and before honour is humility" (Prov. xviii. 12).

AN HOUR OF PERIL.

FAZL DE, a merchant, was travelling towards the city of Delhi with camels and asses laden with various goods. After the day's stage was over, his attendants pitched his tent under a clump of mango trees, and unlading his beasts of burden, suffered them to graze. The place was not far from a village. The hour was sunset. Many of the peasants returning from field-work drew near; to them the merchant spoke with kindness. Then, opening one of his bales, Fazl De disposed amongst them, at cheap rates, of such of his goods as suited the needs of peasants.

More and more people now gathered around, pleased both with the traveller's goods and with his gracious speech. After a while, when business was over, seated outside his tent with a circle of listeners around him, the merchant thus addressed them:—

"I bring you, O my friends! something better than anything contained in my bales; and that, which is most valuable, you may have without money and without price. That I may better explain to you my meaning, I will tell you of an adventure which happened to myself some three years ago."

The crowd listened in perfect silence.

"I had business that took me from Jhelum to Pind Dadar Khán. I had no goods with me then, but I travelled alone and on horseback. I came to a village, where I stayed for more than an hour. I expressed my intention of going on as soon as my horse should have rested a little, for my business required urgent haste.

"Then said the villagers, 'The road is not safe for your honour. Rain has been falling for three days, and the way is now over an almost impassable bog.'

"I was not a man to be easily daunted, and I replied, 'I know that many persons travel by this road.'

"'It is perfectly safe in dry weather,' said the peasants; 'but now, even with a guide, it is not safe to cross the morass.'

"I thought this a cunning attempt to make me stop longer at the serai (inn). I determined to press on. I, however, took the precaution of engaging a guide. Then again I mounted my horse and rode on.

"I proceeded on my way, deep in thought, for many things pressed on my mind at that time. I was a seeker after truth. I had heard much of the Gospel, and I admired greatly the purity of its teaching. But one doctrine in it offended the pride of my heart—the doctrine that man cannot be saved by any good works, by alms-giving, fasting, or pilgrimages; that he can only be saved by faith in Jesus Christ, a crucified Saviour. I was a man bearing a good character, and I thought that by strenuous efforts I could certainly reach heaven at last. Turning these things over in my mind, I rode to the edge of the bog, and then looked round for my guide. The cowardly fellow had failed me; he was nowhere to be seen.

"'It matters not,' I said to myself, 'my horse is a good one, and neither he nor his rider mind floundering through a little soft mud. I shall soon reach firm ground on the farther side.'

"Now mark me, my friends," continued the merchant, "I have always looked on that day's adventure as a kind of parable of my own state. I trusted my body's safety to my good horse, just as I trusted my soul's safety to my good works, and in both cases I played the part of a fool. I rode on some way with difficulty indeed, but no great danger. At last, I found that at every step my horse's feet sank up to the fetlocks, to go even a few yards cost him such exertion that he was soon as thoroughly wet as if he had been hunting all day. But I was too proud to go back. I spurred and whipped my poor horse, and tried to encourage him by my voice. 'I will soon reach the farther side,' thought I; 'I see good firm ground before me.'

"But that good firm ground I was never to reach by any efforts of my horse, though desperate were the efforts which he made. I felt him sinking deeper and deeper under me, till he could no longer get on; his ears were turned back with terror, he sank to his knees, then down, down to the girths of the saddle!

"'His weight and mine are sinking him!' thought I. 'My only chance is to abandon the poor brute to his fate. I am comparatively light, and am not clogged with mud as he is. By going with springing step, I may manage to reach firm ground.'

"But, O my friends! I felt mine to be but a desperate chance. I would have given all that I possessed to have been fairly out of that terrible bog.

"What gave me some hope, however, was to see a mounted camel before me at a place where the bog evidently ended, for the ground was a little raised, and there were some bushes upon it. I called out loudly to the man on the camel, and he halloed back to me. I knew, however, that no man would ride a heavy camel into the bog. The man would only be a witness of my terrible end.

"For I felt that the end was at hand. I was no more able to reach safety without my horse, than I had been when in the saddle. In vain I tried to lift my legs, it seemed as if some cruel enemy from beneath were pulling me down! Then I thought of my sins as I had never thought before. Then I dreaded to meet an angry God. Then the terrors of judgment rose up before me. My good works were as the poor perishing brute behind me. I longed, oh! How I longed for a Saviour then!

"In my perplexity, floundering and struggling, I had not marked the movements of the man in front. Through the merciful providence of God, the camel had been laden with tent ropes and poles; the former the man was, as rapidly as he could, unwinding, and preparing to throw out to me. At last, I perceived his aim; but my impatience grew to agony when I saw the difficulty which my kind friend experienced in making the rope reach me. He threw it again and again, but had to draw it back, it was quite beyond reach of my hand.

"I had by this time sunk up to my waist! I saw the man look anxiously around, as if seeking for other means of saving me; at last, he seized on a long tent-pole. The man then, holding with one hand the end of the rope, of which he had fastened the other end to the camel, placed the pole on the bog before him. I was now in the mud up to my arm-pits. Ten more minutes and I knew that I must be suffocated and perish. I saw the man step cautiously on the tent-pole, but could it, even for a few minutes, support his weight? My senses became confused with terror, I hardly knew what was passing before my eyes till I heard a loud voice cry, 'Grasp it, and hold fast!'

"Then I saw the rope which my preserver, stepping along the slippery half-sinking pole, had risked his life to throw, I saw it just within reach of my hand! I grasped it, poor perishing wretch that I was, how tightly I grasped it! It was my one hope for life. It was hard to hold on—the strain of my weight, all mud-clogged as I was, was so great! Still I never for an instant let go, till the camel, impelled by his master, drew me out of the bog!"

"That moment was doubtless the happiest of your honour's life, when you stood again on firm ground," observed one of the peasants, who had listened with interest to the story.

"No, I had a happier moment still," observed the merchant, "and that was when I found firm ground for my soul to rest on. I told you that my adventure is to me as a parable, now I will unfold to you the lesson which it taught me. The bog is like the everlasting punishment inflicted by a just God for sin. I thought that, mounted, as it were, on my good works, I had nothing to fear from it. I nearly lost my soul through my error. The rope thrown to me is the emblem of salvation freely offered to all who will 'grasp it and hold fast.'"

"Who throws the rope?" asked one of the hearers.

"The Lord Jesus Christ," was the reply; "He who watched from heaven the vain struggles of poor sinners, even as my preserver mine from the farther side of the swamp. Christ descended from heaven to earth and assumed the form and nature of man that He might deliver sinners from the endless pangs of hell. He gave His life a ransom for many, and by His perfect obedience, even unto death, He saved believers from the just punishment of their disobedience to the law of a holy God."

These were new words to the peasants, who wondered at the, to them, strange doctrine taught by the merchant.

"Notice, my friends, that I had nothing to do with procuring the rope, nothing to do with throwing the rope; all that I could do was to grasp it and hold it fast. And so when I found that without any desert of my own, free salvation was offered to me by another, I accepted that free offer of mercy, I grasped and held fast the blessed hope of eternal life given to us in the Saviour Jesus Christ. I believed that Christ could save me, I believed that He was willing to save me. I was, all clogged with the mire of sin, helpless and perishing, dragged, as it were, by the cord of love to the firm ground of salvation. And there I stand now, rejoicing in hope of eternal glory, washed from my sins, cleansed, and made an heir of the kingdom of heaven. It is that you may reach this safe ground, it is that you too may receive this blessing, that we Christians now preach the Gospel amongst you. Being saved ourselves, we are not willing that others should perish. The rope is held out to all; it only needs faith in Christ to receive it. To you I now call in the words of my kind preserver—Grasp it, and hold it fast!"

THE GENEROUS BENEFACTOR.

THE beautiful young Gangi went to gather flowers for the shrine of the goddess Durga. Gangi was not a widow, and yet she dressed in the garb of a widow. There were no bracelets on her arms, no ornament on her slender ankles. Her unbraided hair fell on her shoulders, and her form drooped like a creeper that is torn from the stem around which it had twined. Gangi's young husband had become a Christian; he had broken caste, and henceforth was to all whom he loved as one dead and forgotten, or remembered only to be cursed.

But Gangi could neither curse nor forget, though she feared that her husband had done some very horrible thing. She could hardly believe that her kind, gentle Charu Dás was wicked, but she knew that she herself was wretched. Gangi dared not speak of Charu Dás, though he was constantly in her thoughts. Oh! Could she but win him back by austerities! Gladly would she have wasted away her flesh by fasting, or have walked, with bare and bleeding feet, all the way to Kashi. Gangi was possessed with the same spirit of loving devotion which, in former days, made the Satí burn herself on the funeral pyre of her husband.

Gangi was bending over a tank to gather some beautiful lotus blossoms, when she started, as if she had seen a snake in the water below. It was the reflection of some one standing behind her, one whom she knew well, but from whom she had deemed herself parted for ever. With a faint cry, Gangi started from her stooping position, and fled a few steps; then she paused, for a familiar voice entreated her to stop, a voice which she had never yet disobeyed.

"I am an outcast from all my family; dost thou desert me also, O Gangi! Light of my soul?" said the husband of the youthful Hindu.

Gangi stood trembling, and the tears fell fast from her eyes.

"I am not changed towards thee, O Gangi! Is not my form the same, my voice the same, the love in my heart the same? Yea, greater than ever! We were so happy together!"

"And cannot we be happy again?" exclaimed Gangi suddenly, as a hope flashed across her soul. "The Brahmins may be won * to receive you back by large offerings, and great penances. I will give everything that I possess; oh! would that I had more to give! Your father, brothers, will strip themselves of their property—"

* This receiving back is not so difficult a matter to accomplish as it was formerly. As more converts from Hinduism are drawn into the Christian fold, the Brahmins are opening their eyes to the fact that it is more for their own interests to tempt them back, than to bar and bolt the door against them.

"Never, never will I cease to be a Christian!" said Charu Dás firmly.

The sudden blaze of hope in the heart of Gangi as suddenly died out, like the fire which consumes a light muslin veil. With bitterness, she said, "I do not know what is meant by being a Christian, but I have heard that my lord has broken caste, thrown away his janeo, no more does pujá to our gods, and eats with those of low caste, or Christians, who have no caste at all."

"Didst thou also hear why I broke caste?" asked her husband.

"I have not heard much, save that my lord was beguiled—led astray by the juggling arts * of the wicked Christians," said Gangi sadly.

* The natives are ready to imagine that missionaries practise some kind of enchantment. At Batála it has been said that the Rev. F. B— puts his hand on the head of a Hindu, in consequence of which charm the man on returning towards the city, "beholds it in flames," and dares not go on!

"Hear, then, my story, beloved one, and judge for thyself whether in breaking caste I committed a sin so great as to deserve the hatred of my family and wife."

Gangi listened, leaning against the trunk of a tree, at a little distance from her husband.

"I went to Agra, as thou knowest, and was detained there for a long time on business. Whilst there, O Gangi! I found myself in a terrible position. Thy husband was a criminal, and under sentence of death."

Gangi started in horror. "Under sentence of death!" she exclaimed. "Then he was falsely accused, cruelly condemned."

"Not falsely accused,—but justly condemned," replied Charu Dás. "I could plead nothing in my own defence; I knew myself to have deserved any punishment that might be inflicted."

"But how is my lord free now?" asked Gangi, drawing a step nearer in her eagerness to hear the reply.

"I had a Friend, not a Brahmin, not one of my race, but One of high rank and the most exalted character," replied Charu Dás. "This man loved me with a love as great, yea, even greater than mine for thee, O wife of my youth! When all other hope failed me, He gave the greatest proof of love that a friend could give—He offered to die in my stead!"

Gangi clasped her hands and drew nearer still, for her whole soul was absorbed in listening.

"And my Friend 'did die,'" continued Charu Dás, dropping his voice almost to a whisper. "For me the guilty one, He, the innocent, died; it is through His mortal agony that I now am free."

"Oh! What love," faltered Gangi.

"Before undergoing a shameful and most painful death, my deliverer made a dying request that I would come, and in His company, share a meal with His chosen companions. Gangi, I could not do so without breaking my caste; I could not do so without forfeiting my privileges as a Brahmin. What choice should I make? I hesitated long. If I consented, I should become an outcast; if I refused my Benefactor's dying request, should I not be the most ungrateful of men?"

Gangi bowed her head in silence.

"Now tell me, joy of my soul, hadst thou been in my place, wouldst thou have turned a deaf ear to a dying Saviour, or wouldst thou have broken thy caste?"

Gangi was now so near to her husband that he could catch the faintly whispered words, "I think—I believe, that I should have broken my caste."

"Then, O Gangi! How canst thou condemn me?" exclaimed Charu Dás.

"But what sin had my lord committed that he should be counted worthy of death?" asked Gangi, to whom the first part of her husband's story appeared hardly credible.

"Not one sin only, but a thousand," was Charu Dás's reply. "O Gangi! Every man and woman in this world has broken again and again the commands of a holy God, and is by His law justly sentenced to eternal death. How can a sinner be justified before his Maker? We Hindus pictured our deities themselves full of every vice, and therefore we regarded not vice with horror; but the true religion reveals to us a Being whose very nature is perfection. How dare the polluted sinner approach Him! Man could find no way, though he sought it by pilgrimages, penances, prayers.

"God Himself found a way. He sent His beloved Son to earth, and His Son was willing to leave heaven to save us. This Friend, whose love exceeds that of a brother, became incarnate, assumed a mortal body, that He might offer up that pure body as a sacrifice for our sin. O Gangi! The Lord Jesus Christ offered Himself to stand in our place. He underwent the punishment which we had deserved. He humbled Himself unto death, a painful shameful death, that we might receive eternal life.

"And, O Gangi! What a gift was that which Christ purchased for us! The highest bliss which we aim at is absorption into deity, which leaves the soul no separate existence; it is a bliss which resembles annihilation. The Christian's heaven is a place of pure unmixed delight, where the redeemed of the Lord meet around Him as one large family, shining in His light, rejoicing in His love, washed in His blood from every stain.

"Gangi! When I believed that God's Son had died for me, when I received from Him the gift of pardon and peace, and the hope of eternal life, what could I do but give myself up, body and soul, to Him who loved and gave Himself for me?"

"Hark!" exclaimed Gangi suddenly. "I hear the sound of steps! Fly, fly! If my kindred find you here, they may kill you."

Before the sentence was completed, Charu Dás had disappeared in the jungle.

But the deep impression made by his words remained in the mind of his youthful wife. Gangi said little, but she thought much. She ceased to weep for her lost husband—her relatives thought that she was learning to forget—but silently and secretly a resolve was gaining strength in her mind, which was soon to bear fruit in action.

Charu Dás, according to the law, appealed to the magistrate for permission to have an interview with his wife before they should be separated for ever. The young Hindu, under Government protection, would be allowed to make her final choice as to whether she would remain amongst her own people, or break caste and cut herself off from them by following her husband. It was a time to Charu Dás of terrible anxiety, but he tried to cast his burden of care upon God, and trust to Him to incline the heart of Gangi towards the husband whom she had certainly at one time loved.

The Hindus felt little uneasiness as to the result of the meeting. Gangi was a Brahminee, brought up from infancy amidst those who professed her religion, and they believed that she would as soon be trampled under foot by elephants, as break caste and become an outcast. But they knew not the strength of a woman's love, nor were they aware that a gleam of heavenly light had fallen on the soul of Gangi. Closely shrouded, the young wife went to what all her relatives believed to be her last meeting with the despised Christian. In shrinking modesty she stood before the magistrate. Gangi dared not raise her eyes to meet the anxious gaze of Charu Dás.

The grave magistrate then gave her her choice, that choice which would affect the whole of her future life.

To the surprise of all present, except one, Gangi, with trembling voice, said she would go with her husband.

The anger of her relatives was great; threats and entreaties were alike used to move her from her purpose, but Gangi, though trembling and weeping, kept firm. But for the presence of the magistrate, the poor young girl would have been dragged away by violence, and never suffered to see again him whom she loved best upon earth. But force was forbidden by the law. The Hindu wife must be allowed a free choice. In the midst of uproar, but full of thankfulness and joy, the convert bore away his rescued treasure.

The rest of the story is soon told. The young Brahminee learned ere long to believe what Charu Dás believed, and to serve the God whom he served. When once reproached by a former companion for her change of religion, Gangi meekly replied, "How can we refuse to give our lives to the generous Benefactor who gave His for us? I have learned to say from my heart, 'We love Him, because He first loved us'" (1 John iv. 19).

THE DESECRATED TEMPLE.

MANY hundred years ago, a beautiful temple was built, of pure white marble, for the worship of the great God, the Creator of all. On the walls of the building were inscribed, in letters formed of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, the words HOLINESS, HAPPINESS, PEACE. As guardian of the temple, a strong watchman was placed, whose name was Conscience. He was to keep the holy place clean, and take care that nothing defiling should enter.

For awhile all was well, until an enemy, full of the greed of spoil, determined to possess himself of the jewels in the white marble temple. He had no power to do so by force. The door was strong, the watchman who kept the keys was always at his post, and he had a bell by which he could bring powerful help whenever needed. The enemy saw no means of accomplishing his purpose but by deceiving or bribing the watchman. Night, also, was the only time when he could do so unobserved by the rest of the world.

One dark and windy night the enemy came and knocked at the door of the temple.

"Who art thou?" cried the watcher within, without opening the strongly-barred door.

"I am a pilgrim who has come from a great distance, and with very large offerings," replied the deceiver. "I know no one in the neighbourhood, the night is stormy, and I fear to remain without, lest I should be robbed of my treasures. Only see what I have brought with me."

"It is against rules to admit any one at night," said the porter.

"But every rule has exceptions. Mine is a peculiar case. I have brought gifts, also, for you," said the robber.

The watchman, in his folly, believed the word of the stranger; curiosity and covetousness overpowered his caution. In an evil hour, he unbarred the strong door, and let the enemy in.

The deceiver entered, bringing with him what he called his treasures, which were carefully enclosed in many wrappings, and secured by seals. Entrance had thus been effected, but as long as Conscience remained awake, the enemy could do but little. The bell might at any moment be rung, he be overpowered, and thrust out, or handed over to justice. The robber was indeed within the walls, but his every movement was watched by one stronger than he.

Deferring opening out his pretended treasures till the morning, the intruder produced from his wallet some fruit, cakes, and delicious-looking sweetmeats, and prepared to refresh himself after his long journey by a meal, of which he asked the watchman to partake.

"It is against rules to eat in the temple," said the watchman; "go outside and eat your meal in peace."

The deceiver pleaded the roughness of the night, and the length of his journey. "There can be no harm," said he, "in breaking a rule for once, and no one will know that you have done so." He spread out the tempting food on the floor, and used such artful persuasion, that the watchman not only permitted him to sit down and eat, but after awhile was induced to sit down also and partake of a few sweetmeats which wore of a most tempting appearance.

The sweetmeats were drugged, and in the midst of his forbidden meal, the faithless guardian of the temple fell into a deep sleep.

Then, indeed, the enemy had it all his own way. Quickly unwrapping what he had called his treasures, he produced instruments suited to accomplish his wicked designs. With dexterity the robber extracted the jewels from the walls. It was a work of time, for they had been well and firmly set. But first the word HOLINESS was effaced, then HAPPINESS, and then PEACE. Only a rude broken outline was left to show where they once had been. Hours and hours went by, and all this time the watchman slept.

The enemy's object was not only to despoil, but to defile the once beautiful temple. There were a number of little idols with him, and these he placed in niches in every direction. There was one called Falsehood, an idol representing a woman, with snakes instead of hair curling around her brow; there was Covetousness, with many hands; Cruelty, with a necklace of skulls; Impurity, with an animal's head. What was beautiful had been destroyed, what was hideous was put in its place; the once pure white temple was pure no longer, and still the guardian slept!

How long he might have slept none can tell, had not what may be called a trifling incident occurred. Just when the work of destruction was almost completed, and the first gleam of dawn appeared in the sky, a little bird flew through a small opening in the temple, and struck the sleeper with its wing as it passed.