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THE BALLOON.
ISA DÁS conversed much with those who came to him for advice, ever keeping in mind their spiritual profit. Sometimes he spoke directly on the subject of religion, sometimes on occurrences of the day, which he read out of a native newspaper lent to him by a friend. What the doctor's drugs were to his patient's bodies, so were his words to their souls.
One day Isa Dás told a bunniah (shopkeeper) and some others who were seated on the grass before him, smoking their hookahs, of a strange event which had occurred in Calcutta. *
* The narrative is but too true; the particulars have been taken from the newspaper account.
"Notice had been given," said he, "that a bold colonel sahib was to mount up in a balloon."
"A balloon, what may that be?" inquired a zemindar (husbandman) who had never been twenty miles from his native village.
"A balloon is a huge ball made of cloth or silk, large as a house, and filled with light gas, which causes it to rise into the clouds. A car hangs from the balloon, and in this car men have room to sit, and thus be borne aloft in the air. Many people of Calcutta gathered to see the tamasha (show), and looked with wonder at the big ball which was to carry the bold colonel into the sky."
"Wah! Wah!" cried the zemindar. "I should like to have been there to see the tamasha!"
"The colonel came with a cheerful face when all was ready," continued the doctor. "But not every one looked equally cheerful when noticing the state of the balloon.
"'There are cracks in the cloth,' observed a friend, gazing upwards at the great ball, which, inflated with gas, was kept down by ropes, till the colonel should get into the car.'
"'No matter!' cried the colonel. 'That is nothing! I have mounted in a balloon with holes in it as big as my head.'
"Bright and bold, he stepped into the car and sat down. At a given signal the men who held the ropes let go their hold. Up shot the balloon like a bird! It rises one—two—three hundred feet above the heads of the people, who gaze with eager upturned eyes. But soon, ah, too soon, the shouts of joy which had burst from the crowd, suddenly change to the silence of horror. The balloon bursts in the air; down, down it comes as fast as it rose, straight into a piece of water below! Like a huge sheet, the torn cloth lies on the tank, the unfortunate colonel beneath it!
"Can no one save him? Can no one help him? Many rush to the sahib's aid, and plunge into the tank; but how are they to find the colonel under those hundreds of yards of wet floating cloth! They try to lift the heavy mass; they tear it here; they drag it there; every minute seems long as an hour, every minute lessens the chance of finding the colonel alive! At last there's a cry, 'He's found!' And shortly afterwards something that—not a half-hour before—was a brave, strong man, is dragged from under the wide spread of cloth! Alas! The bold heart has ceased to beat! The unhappy colonel has perished!"
"And why did he perish?" cried the bunniah, who had taken his hookah out of his mouth. "Was it not because he had trusted himself to a balloon of flimsy cloth that had holes, through which the gas could escape!"
"Now, to my mind that poor colonel's death preaches a lesson to us," observed Isa Dás. "There are some who make as sure of going to happiness when they die as the colonel sahib did of rising into the clouds. Now, I like to ask my conscience,—is my hope a sure one, or is it rather like the cracked balloon?"
"I do not trouble myself with such thoughts," observed the bunniah. "I perform my religious duties, I make offerings, I feast the Brahmins,—I have nothing to fear." And, like an easygoing man of the world as he was, he resumed his hookah.
"But, my friend, do you never tell a lie, not even to make a good bargain?" asked Isa Dás.
Those around laughed, for the character of the bunniah was like that of most of his class; only the doctor was grave.
"Have you never cheated or spoken evil of one whom you hated, or flattered another whose favour you wished to gain?" pursued the Christian.
"Such things are trifles, they matter not!" said the bunniah,—and again the hubble-bubble of the hookah, interrupted for a moment, was heard.
"Ah! Friend, what you call trifles are as the cracks in the balloon!" cried Isa Dás. "Your righteousness is flimsy as the cloth of which the great ball was made. If it was rash in the colonel to trust his body to a balloon which raised him a little from earth, only to dash him down into destruction, are you not worse than rash if you trust your soul to what never can save it?"
The question made as little impression on the bunniah as it did on his hookah; but the zemindar, who was a man of a simple, teachable spirit, asked, "What is it that can save souls?"
"We need something much stronger, better, more perfect than any goodness of our own to carry us up to heaven," said Isa Dás; "and such righteousness is offered to us in the Gospel, even that of the Lord Jesus Christ!"
"Who was He?" inquired the zemindar.
"He is the only Man who over lived on earth and never knew sin," was the reply, "the only perfectly holy. Even his enemies could prove nothing against Him; even His judge declared, 'I find no fault in this man.'"
"But of what use is His righteousness to us?" asked the zemindar.
Then Isa Dás, with fervour and clearness, gave to the poor man, who listened with interest, an outline of the "old, old story." He told of the Lord's Incarnation, His holy life, and His terrible death endured for sinners. And thus the Christian closed his earnest address:—
"You asked me of what use the righteousness of Christ could be to us, and this is my reply. He offers it as a royal gift to all who truly believe in Him who is at once divine and human, the Son of God and the Son of Man. Christ is 'the Lord our Righteousness' (Jer. xxxiii. 16). This is the secret of the peace which I have found in the Christian religion," continued the convert. "I do not trust in my own righteousness, I count it but as filthy rags; but I have accepted the perfect righteousness of Christ, which is strong enough to bear me upwards, even to the gates of heaven, even into the presence of God."
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THE THREE CASKETS.
AMONGST those who often listened to Isa Dás, and listened with pleasure, was Natthu the oilman. He was at last so convinced of the truth of what he heard, that he became a secret believer. But Natthu was of a timid and worldly nature; from fear of persecution, he refrained from openly confessing his faith; he never even spoke of it except to his friend Isa Dás, and then only when no one else was present to hear.
Like others of a like cowardly spirit, Natthu tried to justify himself in his own eyes, and call his timidity prudence. Isa Dás he tried to regard as an amiable enthusiast, who exposed himself to quite unnecessary trouble and distress on account of religion.
Natthu said one day to Isa Dás, "O doctor! Men abuse and hate you because you have broken caste. Why were you not content to believe and be silent? If the heart be right, what matters the confession of the mouth? One can be a Christian in secret without being baptised."
Isa Dás had more than once tried to argue this point with Natthu, but had always failed in persuading him that he who will give up nothing and dare nothing for the Saviour cannot be reckoned amongst His disciples. Now, after a few moments of reflection, he said, "O brother! Have you ever heard the story of the three caskets?" *
* The story is, of course, most familiar to English readers of Shakespeare, but would be new to most Orientals. Its adaptability to convey a religious lesson struck me; and the more we reflect on it the more deeply impressed are we with the deep knowledge of human nature which the poet possessed.
"Then," said the oilman, "be pleased to tell me this story." And squatting on the ground, he prepared to give his full attention to some Eastern tale.
"It is said," thus began Isa Dás, "that once upon a time there were three caskets placed in a palace, and proclamation was made that he who should choose the right one would find in it a beautiful picture, which should give him a right to possess great wealth, and all that his heart most desired. Men would be partly guided in their choice by an inscription on the outside of each box. The first casket was of gold, and on it was written, 'Who chooseth me shall have what many men desire.' The second was of silver, and the inscription on it was this, 'Who chooseth me shall have what he deserves.' The third was of lead, and on it appeared, 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' Had you been there, O Natthu! of the three which would you have chosen?"
"Surely the gold one!" cried Natthu, who was miserly, and whose chief joy in life was to hoard up his gains. "Who would take silver if gold were near; as for lead, no one would touch it. Besides, the inscription showed plainly what choice should be made; what do many desire but riches,—houses, riches, rich clothes, jewels, and bags of rupees!"
"In short, the goods of this world," said the Christian.
"But perhaps a Jogi would have chosen the silver box," observed the oilman, "for what with his pilgrimages and his fastings, his long contemplations and austerities, he gathers together such a stock of merits, that he thinks nothing too good for his deserts."
"A Jogi, and many a Brahmin would certainly be likely to choose the silver casket," said Isa Dás.
"But none would have chosen the leaden one!" exclaimed the oilman. "No one in his senses will agree to 'give and hazard all that he hath!'"
"The story goes that each of the caskets was chosen by some one," said Isa Dás. "The first man who came, like yourself, chose that which was bright to the eye, and which promised present profit."
"And was not the beautiful picture inside?" asked the oilman.
"Within was a skull," replied Isa Dás gravely. "The meaning of this is, that earthly joys are but for a moment, the fashion of the world passeth away, and the possessor of rank and riches is soon himself the property of death."
Little did Natthu know how soon the doctor's words would in part apply to himself! He had indeed chosen the casket of gold, and was hoarding up, pice by pice, anna by anna, what he thought would be a provision for him for many a year to come.
Without, however, dwelling on the lesson intended for his profit, he proceeded to inquire, "What did the silver casket contain?"
"The likeness of a grinning idiot; and the meaning of this was, as we read in the wise king's sayings, 'He who trusteth his own heart is a fool' (Prov. xxviii. 26). If we, whose best deeds are full of sin, seek for reward instead of forgiveness, what are we but rebels, who in their king's presence come boldly forth and claim a dress of honour, instead of falling on their faces and begging for mercy!'"
"The beautiful picture must, after all, have been enclosed in the leaden casket, on which was written—'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all that he hath,'" observed the oilman.
"Is it not so with the Christian religion?" asked the doctor. "The Lord promised not to His disciples worldly riches, but said, 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth.' He promised not the praise of the world, but said, 'Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for My sake.' He declared, 'Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be My disciple.'"
Natthu muttered half aloud, "Such a religion is not for me!"
"To you, O my friend! It has a dull, repulsive look, like the leaden casket," said the Christian, "but I, who have chosen it, can tell of the treasures that lie within. There is, first, forgiveness of sin; God hath declared that 'the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin' (1 John i. 7). There is then peace with the Most High, 'We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ' (Rom. v. 1). There is the promise of the Spirit to dwell in our hearts, whose fruit is love and peace and joy. There is comfort in the hour of death, and after death 'glory, honour, and immortality,' robes of white, a crown that never shall fade, a kingdom that never shall end!" The eyes of the convert sparkled with joy as he thus spoke of the blessings bestowed on believers.
But Natthu was not one to give and hazard all that he had for any spiritual profit. If he could have at once the hope of heaven and the good things of earth, the praise of God and the praise of men, he was content to be a Christian. But if he must choose between the spiritual and temporal advantage, Natthu's choice was not present affliction. And so he went on from day to day in a downward course, living as a Hindu amongst Hindus, though convinced in his mind that the religion of the Bible is indeed the only true religion.
After a while the glimmering of truth which Natthu had received died away like a lamp which is fed with no oil. He avoided intercourse with Isa Dás, lest he should be suspected of embracing his opinions. So the heart of the Hindu became harder and harder, till he gave up altogether thinking of God and the judgment to come.
The case of Natthu is a common one in India; is it altogether unknown even in England, where the sacrifices to be made for God are so much smaller than those required of the poor Hindu? We are not called to be aliens from family, exiles from home, though from every Christian is required the spirit that is ready to give and hazard all for the Lord.
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KILLING WITH KINDNESS.
ONE evening, about the hour of sunset, the doctor, Isa Dás, was called in haste from his devotions to see Natthu the oilman, who was, it was said, dying of raging fever. Isa Dás hurried to the house. The entrance was through a small yard, in which a black buffalo and her calf were tied. Through the doorway Isa Dás passed into the dwelling, the lower part of which was occupied by the oil-mill; but the patient buffalo who usually turned the creaking wheel was no longer going his wearisome round. The place looked the receptacle for dirt, and every species of rubbish.
Isa Dás had never before penetrated beyond this room, but now a group of dirty children were ready to show him the way up to his patient. The narrow staircase was steep and utterly dark; Isa Dás had to feel his way, and take care that he stumbled not on a broken step. To a European newly arrived, such a dwelling might give an idea of extreme poverty, but to the zenana visitor it would appear but a common specimen of the houses of those who live by the work of their hands. Had Isa Dás had no one to show him the way, he would have been sufficiently guided by the hubbub of voices from the apartment above.
The Christian soon found himself in a room about twelve feet square. This room was literally crammed with people, men, women, and half-naked children. * All pressed forward, jostling one another, to watch the struggles of a frantic sufferer on a charpai covered with a mass of dirty rags, which gave forth a sickening odour. It was scarcely possible to breathe in that crowded place; the crowd shut out every breath of air from the sufferer, and their loud voices mingled with his cries.
* The oilman's bibi wee evidently not a purdah woman, or none of the male sex, except near relations, would have been admitted.
The doctor saw in a moment that, if this state of things continued, the patient had not a chance of life. Natthu was gasping for breath, his eyes almost starting out of his head, while he seemed, with his outstretched hands, to be trying to keep something back, which no one could see but himself.
"Back—back—all of you!" cried the doctor in a tone of authority. "Except the bibi, not one must remain in this room. I will not so much as attempt a cure unless the place be cleared!"
But it was no easy matter to clear the place. One dirty girl in particular, who was carrying a wretched baby whose eyes were covered with flies and whose head with sores, seemed to think it her right as well as her pleasure to stand and stare. It was at least five minutes before Isa Dás could clear the room of all but the patient and his wife.
He could hear people mutter, as they groped their way down the stairs, that this strange new way of treating the sick all came from Isa Dás being a Christian.
"Now, away with these rags, and bring water!" cried the doctor.
"Have you brought medicines with you?" asked the wife.
"Yes, but the three medicines which this poor fellow most requires are air, cleanliness, and quiet?" cried Isa Dás, who was feeling the pulse of his patient. "If he can have these but for one night, he may struggle through this attack; but if not—" he interrupted himself, for there was the girl with the wretched baby again trying to force herself back into the room. *
* If the sight of a zenana visitor be at all a novelty, she is likely to be followed by an escort of such children even into the zenanas of the comparatively wealthy. It is not strange to see amongst them some baby covered with small-pox.
The wife, happily, was not quite destitute of common sense. She saw that the doctor knew his business, and the life of the breadwinner for herself, her children, two widowed aunts, and a mother was too precious for her not to be anxious to do what she could to save it.
The obtrusive girl was promptly expelled in a fashion which sent her as well as the baby roaring down the staircase. A noisy hen with her brood of chickens was next turned out, and a great many dirty rags carried away. The air was able to come in tolerably freely through the square-shaped opening which might be called a window, though it had never held a pane of glass.
Poor Natthu was quite unconscious of what was passing around him, but he was sensible of the relief given by something like quiet, and bathing his brow somewhat lessened the terrible pain in his head. His wife assiduously fanned him with a small straw hand-punkah, and he drank in the fresh air almost as eagerly as he did the cooling medicine held by Isa Dás to his lips.
"What will his poor mother and aunts say when they hear of this dreadful illness?" exclaimed the wife. "He was quite well and driving the buffalo at the mill when they left here early with the children to go to the melá at P—," mentioning a village a few miles distant. "Little they knew that Piru's father * would be lying in such a state before night."
* It is considered indecorous for a wife to mention the name of her husband, or a man that of his bibi.
Thankful was Isa Dás that all these relatives had not been present to add their numbers to the crowd, and their voices to the noise. He was glad to hear from the bibi that the party intended to sleep at P—, so that the poor oilman had some chance of a quiet night. Ere long, some improvement took place; the sick man's pulse beat less wildly, and he ceased to cry out, as he had been doing in his delirium, that demons were crowding around him and smothering him to death.
"Praise be to the Most Merciful! He is better already," said the doctor. "Cheer up," he continued kindly to the wife, who was shampooing her husband's feet, "if he be but kept quiet, I hope that he may live to do many a good day's work for you yet."
The words were scarcely out of Isa Dás's lips, when he heard a sudden wild tumult below, and the sound of feet first rushing through the mill-room, then up the steep stairs, with the noise of loud weeping and wailing. There was no means, even had there been time, to fasten the door, and not even the doctor could keep out the mother, two aunts, and five children, who now burst into the room.
Natthu startled suddenly from something like sleep, sprang up into a sitting posture; wildly waving his arms, and rolling his eyes, he screamed out in terror, "Here they are again!" And then fell backwards in a fit, from which he never recovered.
Before midnight, laments for the dying gave place to wild wailing over the dead. The women, in their unreasoning fear and grief, had actually put out the spark of life which the doctor had been so anxiously trying to cherish!
Isa Dás left that house at midnight with a very heavy heart, remembering how he had vainly tried to sow the seed of Truth in the poor oilman's worldly heart. He thought, too, how many a life in Hindustan is every year lost from the folly of those who should tend the sick.
"But how can I wonder," he said to himself, "that in things regarding the body the same mistakes are made as in things regarding the soul! Superstitions crowd like the flies on the eyes of that poor child, which no one takes the trouble to drive away, though they carry disease and perhaps blindness. As cleanliness, air, and quiet are to the sick frame, so are purity, truth, and peace to the sick soul. Oh! When will these blessings be widely known and prized in my poor benighted country?"
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DYING FOR A FRIEND.
ISA DÁS had not always the bitter trial of seeing those for whom he had laboured and prayed living without God, and dying without hope. The work of an evangelist is specially a work of faith, and those who sow are not always permitted in this world to reap. Their harvest-joy is reserved for the blessed day when they who sow and they who reap shall rejoice together. Yet even in the hard field in which the convert's lot was cast, he was not without occasional tokens that his labour was not in vain in the Lord.
One of those in whom Isa Dás took the deepest interest was a kahar of the name of Gopal, who was slowly dying of an inward disease. The doctor knew that he could not cure the poor man, but he could sometimes relieve his pain; and attending him gave to the Christian opportunities of dropping in words that might be as seeds of light to a Hindu dying in darkness. The tall form of Isa Dás, wrapt in his old worn blanket, was therefore often seen in the cottage of Gopal.
One day Isa Dás found the kahar in very low spirits, tears flowing down his hollow cheeks. Isa Dás sat down on the sick man's charpai (bed), and gently asked him, "O brother! What sorrow is pressing on your heart?"
Gopal only groaned in reply.
"Is the pain in your chest greater than usual?"
The question had to be repeated before any answer was given.
Then said Gopal, "It is not the pain that I cannot endure; I know that it cannot last very long. You see yon crescent moon in the sky? Before she reaches the full, I know that my funeral pile will be lighted." And he gave a heavy sigh.
"Do you ever think of what will come to your soul after death?" inquired the Christian.
"It is that which troubles me," groaned the Hindu, who could no longer refrain from pouring out his griefs. "I don't know through how many of the eight million four hundred thousand transmigrations I may already have passed. I have had no time for pilgrimages, and no disposition for contemplation. I have led an active life, and have never spent many pice on feeding Brahmins. And, what is worse than all—" he stopped and looked anxiously around, as if afraid of being overheard.
"No one else is near, you may speak freely," said Isa Dás. As Gopal remained silent, he suggested, "Perhaps you have been tempted to steal?"
The sick kahar shook his head.
"Perhaps you have borne false witness in a court of justice?"
"Worse than that," sighed Gopal, who, like most of his countrymen, thought little of lying. "A Jogi came to my door, and asked for alms. It was a time of scarcity. I had scarcely enough of food to keep soul and body together. The Jogi looked fat and well-fed. I told him I had nothing to spare. The Jogi sat at my door from morning till noon, with a loud voice demanding pica; and I gave him nothing—woe is me!—I gave him nothing. Then the holy man got up in a rage, and cursed me; from that day I have never been well. And now I feel sure that when I die, my soul will go into the body of an ass or a swine. I shall be punished in my next birth for the crime committed in this!" The poor superstition-enslaved Hindu groaned again at the thought.
"Oh, brother!" exclaimed Isa Dás. "If you were a Christian, you would be troubled by no such idle fears!"
"In your religion, do you not believe in new births?" asked the Hindu.
"Only one new birth, a death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness. We believe in one great change, the change of heart which comes when he who knows himself to be a sinner believes from his heart in the Saviour of sinners."
Isa Dás had repeatedly spoken thus to the Hindu, but this was the first time that his words had seemed to have the slightest effect.
Gopal looked earnestly at his friend for some moments, and then said, "I know that you believe that Jesus Christ saves sinners, but I cannot see in what way."
Isa Dás had never found Gopal willing to listen to a verse from the Bible, so he thought that he would begin his explanation by an illustration from Indian history. "Have you ever heard of the love of the Emperor Babar for his son?" he inquired. "Or what he did when that son was thought sick unto death?"
The story is widely known, but the Hindu kahar had not heard it.
"The Emperor, from great love, resolved to take his son's sickness on himself," said Isa Dás. "He solemnly walked seven times round the prince's bed, and it was God's will that the son should recover and the loving father sicken and die."
"I wish that there were any one who loved me enough to die in my stead!" said the poor Hindu.
"That is exactly what God's Son, the King of Heaven, has already done!" cried Isa Dás. "The Lord Jesus Christ saw all men lying in sin, about to die and perish for ever. The doors of heaven were closed against guilty souls. All are unholy; yes, Brahmins, the Jogi, the devotee are all under one terrible sentence, 'The soul that sinneth, it shall die' (Ezek. xviii. 20). God's Son took pity on a perishing world; He came and assumed a mortal body, * that in that body He might die. He bore our punishment as He hung on the Cross. And now, through Christ's great sacrifice, the fear of death is taken from true believers. 'There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus' (Rom. viii. 1)."
* The doctrine of the Incarnation offers no such difficulty to the Hindu's mind as it does to that of the Mahomedan.
"Are they emancipated from the eighty-four lakhs (100,000) of births?" asked the Hindu earnestly. "Are they in no danger of entering a vile body when they die?"
"These supposed transmigrations are but the wild dreams of men," replied Isa Dás. "The Word of God tells of an abode of perfect delight into which all will be admitted after death who in their lifetime believe in the Saviour."
"To believe—is that enough?" cried the dying Hindu.
"Yes, if the faith be that living faith, whose fruit is love and obedience," replied the Christian. "He who believes from the heart that the Son of God died for me, even me, cannot but love his Redeemer. 'We love Him, because He first loved us' (1 John iv. 19). And obedience follows on love; what faithful disciple obeys not the voice of his Goru? Our heavenly Goru hath said, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments' (John xiv. 15)."
Isa Dás said no more that day, for he saw that Gopal was too feeble to listen long. The Christian, however, left the hut of the poor kahar with a feeling of hope, which he turned into fervent prayer. It was something that Gopal should think of his own soul and its state after death. It was something that he had listened with something like attention to the story of redeeming Love. When we see the first green blade rise from the ground which we have ploughed and sown, is it not as an earnest to us of the harvest which may one day be reaped?
HELP IN NEED.
ISA DÁS much needed such encouragements to cheer him, for at this time he was in great straits as regarded temporal things. The patients who came to him for healing seldom gave him even cowries * to pay for his drugs. Few even thought of giving the Christian his due; was it not enough if they did not abuse and revile him? Isa Dás could no longer earn money by selling charms, his conscience forbade him to do so. He had to part one by one with almost everything that he possessed, even to his shawl and embroidered slippers, and the hookah which had once been his father's. The blanket which he wore was threadbare; the kurta beneath only fit for a wandering fakir.
* Shells used as money, where such is needed below the value of a mite.
Often the doctor went hungry to his work, and hungry and tired lay down to rest. But for four rupees which had been lent to him by his friend the missionary, the poor convert might—as it seemed—have been starved. Those rupees, though spent sparingly pice by pice for food, were gone at last.
This was a great trial of the faith of Isa Dás. He was sometimes tempted to think, "Hath my Lord forgotten me? He is my Shepherd, yet doth He not leave me to want?"
But Isa Dás's faith struggled against the secret temptation. These words were written on his heart, 'Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you' (1 Peter v. 7).
One evening, after a day of trial, when a single chapatti had formed the whole of his meal, and not a cowrie was left to buy another, Isa Dás, prostrating himself on the earth, uttered this prayer, "O Lord Jesus! Thou hast known what it is to be poor and a-hungered; Thou hast promised that Thou wilt never leave or forsake them who put their trust in Thee! I cast myself on Thy mercy and love! Give me according to Thy wisdom and my need, and whether I suffer want or abound, enable me always to glorify Thee, and say from my heart, 'Thy will be done.'"
Even as Isa Dás rose from his prostrate position, he saw a man running towards him in haste. This man was the servant of Ahmed Khán, a Mahomedan Amir.
"Can you tell me where the doctor lives?" cried the man as he reached the spot where Isa Dás was standing at the door of his mud-built hut. The messenger was panting from the speed at which he had been running.
"I am the doctor," replied Isa Dás.
The servant looked for a moment rather contemptuously at the half-fed, ill-dressed man before him, but his business admitted of no delay. "My master's only son has had a terrible accident," he said. "A messenger was sent on horseback for the European doctor, but he is laid up with fever, and cannot leave his bed. Therefore am I sent for you. When an elephant falls down dead, he who sat in its howdah may have to content himself with the back of an ass."
Without seeming to notice the insolent taunt, Isa Dás at once went into his hut to gather together the few means of cure which he possessed. He then followed the servant to the residence of the Amir, which was not half a cos distant (not a mile).
Can carved doors shut out sorrow, or will the embroidered pillow give ease to an aching head? The dwelling which Isa Dás entered was one of comfort and elegance, but it was now one of pain and grief. Isa Dás found the Amir's son stretched on a rich divan, with a broken limb, a body covered with bruises, and blood-stained bandages, instead of a handsome turban, bound round his head. The lad's eyes were closed; his face was deadly pale; only a little twitching of pain, and an occasional moan showed that life had not departed.
Beside his only son, grief and fear expressed in his face, stood Ahmed Khán. Behind the rich curtain which divided the room, could be heard the sound of weeping from the purdah-women beyond.
Isa Dás, after examining the poor lad's hurts, saw that the case was a difficult one, but not one without hope. Silently praying for God's blessing on his work, the doctor set the broken limb, he bathed and bound the bleeding head, he applied healing salve to the bruises. All during that night Isa Dás watched by his patient. And after resting awhile on the following day, at night, he resumed his watch.
The house was very different indeed from that in which the poor oilman had breathed his last; air was admitted in abundance, the swing of the punkah never ceased; the patient's hands were bathed in rose-water, and his thirst relieved by cool sweet sherbet.
Much courtesy was shown to Isa Dás by the Amir, who could seldom be persuaded to quit the sick-bed of his son. It a little surprised the Mahommedans at first that the converted Hindu had none of the prejudices of his race regarding food, but ate whatever was offered to him, sanctifying it by prayer.
On the third day the English doctor was able to come. He examined the patient, and pronounced him to be out of danger. The Amir devoutly thanked God, and his exclamation was echoed by the ladies behind the purdah, who had not unfrequently come in to see the sick son of one, and nephew of another, but who had hurried back to their retreat on the English doctor's arrival, fearful lest he should catch a glimpse of their faces.
"Your son has been well and skilfully treated," said the European. "Who was it who set the broken limb?"
The Amir pointed to Isa Dás.
"He evidently knew his business well," said the English doctor.
The Amir made a sign to one of his servants, who brought to him a fine turban, and a silken bag. From this bag the Amir took out five rupees (more than 9s.) and placed them, with the turban, in the hands of Isa Dás. *
* The sum will seem very small to the English reader, but when one remembers that less than that is considered a month's pay for some of our lower servants, probably a family man, it will appear less insignificant.
"O Lord! I thank Thee! Thou hast seen my trouble; Thou hast heard my prayer!" came from the heart of the poor Christian.
No man heard that burst of thanksgiving, for the lips of Isa Dás were silent. But it was with a sense of deep pure joy that he passed forth from the Amir's dwelling to return to his own humble hut.
It was not merely that his present wants were relieved, and that his reputation was made, that caused that deep pure joy; the love of God was the fountain from which it flowed. Isa Dás had realised, as he perhaps had never so fully done before, the truth of that gracious promise, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."
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DOING HIS DUTY.
FOR the first time for months, Isa Dás had the clear sum of five rupees in his hands. He entered his hut, and seating himself on the mud floor, began to consider what he should do with his money.
"Shall I lay in a stock of grain while it is cheap, or buy one or two brass cooking-vessels to replace those I have been obliged to part with? Nay, surely my first purchase should be a blanket, for mine is almost threadbare. Perhaps I might spare something out of these five rupees for the work of the Lord. It would be a thank offering if I sent eight annas (half a rupee) to the starving folk at Madras."
There were so many things on which Isa Dás wished to spend his money, that he could not make up his mind as to which he should choose. "I will not go to the bazaar till to-morrow," he said to himself, "there is no hurry for me to decide. I will now just read a little from God's Word, and then peacefully and thankfully go to my rest."
Isa Dás opened the Bible, as he was wont, with a short prayer for God's Spirit to guide him. The Christian usually found great refreshment from reading the Bible, but this time any one who could have watched his face would have seen that he was troubled. Isa Dás was reading the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul's epistle to the Romans, and he paused with his finger on the eighth verse, "Owe no man anything, but to love one another."
To Isa Dás had come that trouble which often meets those who have in mature years adopted a religion more pure than that of their childhood. Sunlight shows us blots and stains that we never noticed by lamplight. Until Isa Dás had become a Christian, he had never regarded remaining in debt as a sin, though he knew it to be an evil. Like many of his countrymen, he looked on a creditor as a kind of tyrant, whom it is lawful to cheat if you can. Isa Dás had often said that debt is like a chain, but he had not thought that it was one of Satan's forging; he believed it to be against man's comfort, but had not been aware that it is against the command of the Most High. *
* The prevalence of debt is one of the most terrible evils in India, a fertile cause of misery. Persons, for a wedding or funeral expenses, will burden themselves with debt, which fetters them for the rest of their lives. Interest in India is enormously high; thus debts grow fast, like plants in a damp, hot jungle. Native Christians need earnest warnings as well as heathen. It will take time to teach even them that there in a difference between a gift and a loan.
"I owe four rupees to the missionary sahib," said Isa Dás to himself, "but the thought of this has never disturbed me, for I knew that I could not pay, and that he would not press for payment. He is no grasping money-lender. But I can pay him now, though not without giving up what I greatly desired; only one rupee would be left, and no one who can help it ever thinks of paying debts. Why should I do what none of my countrymen think it needful to do?"
"Because I am a Christian," was the faithful reply given by conscience; "because I have no right to spend on myself, or even to give away to the poor what really belongs to another."
Yet Isa Dás was not fully persuaded that to repay his friend's loan was a religious duty until, prostrating himself in prayer, he had humbly said, in the words of the great apostle, "'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?'"
Then it appeared evident to his soul that honesty required repayment of a loan, and that he who would "provide things honest in the sight of all men" must not remain in debt for a single day longer than he possibly can. Resolving, though with a sigh, to carry over the four rupees in the morning, Isa Dás fell asleep.
But when the morning came, the convert's resolution wavered a little. Even after he had started for the missionary's house, which lay at the other end of the town, Isa Dás had many doubts and misgivings. As he passed through the bazaars, Satan tempted him first by the sight of a beautiful blanket with a red border, then ranges of shining brazen vessels, then heaps of grain, and baskets of ripe, delicious fruit. At every turning Isa Dás found a new snare.
Thrice, he almost resolved to delay, at least, paying his debt. Then came the thought, "This is the first opportunity which God has given me of getting out of debt; if I delay, such an opportunity may never occur again. If I neglect my Lord's command, can I expect His blessing? Debt, like a cancer, is eating out the very life of this land; every Christian should, by his conduct, make his firm protest against it."
So, trying to avoid even looking into the tempting shops, and delaying his purchase of needful things till his return, lest he should be drawn into spending more than his single rupee, Isa Dás pursued his way. He soon left the town behind him, and came in sight of the white bungalow, with its neat compound, in which the missionary resided.
The missionary was engaged in counting out some rupees, being the results of a collection made in his church, when his servant made his salam, and announced that Isa Dás was in attendance, and desired to see his honour. The missionary turned towards a Government official who sat near him, reading the papers, and said, "This is the very convert whom I was recommending to you just now. He is one who has really lost all for the sake of religion."
"And I doubt that he expects you to make up his losses," said the officer, smiling. "I tell you again that I don't like native Christians; they are a covetous lot, always bent on getting as much as they can. Just you see now if the fellow has not come to ask you for money."
"He may, indeed, need help," replied the missionary, rather sorry that his needy convert should happen to come just at that time.
Isa Dás entered, and made his respectful salam. He then drew forth from his kamarband * four rupees, which he silently placed on the table.
* A scarf worn round the waist, which often serves as a purse.
"What have you brought these for?" asked his friend.
"I have brought them to repay the debt which I owe your honour for what you kindly lent me some time ago."
"I gladly add them to our church collection," said the missionary, placing the rupees beside those which he had just been counting out.
"This is the very first time that I have ever known a native pay a debt without the money being forced from him!" cried the officer present, looking with interest at the thin form, so meanly clad, of the honest convert. "Christianity has done something for this man at least. You have told me," he continued, still speaking in English, so that Isa Dás did not understand him, "that he has some education, is intelligent, hardworking, and one not given to lying and cheating?"
"All that, and a good deal more," replied the missionary with a smile.
"I want just that sort of person to accompany me in my journeys through the famine-stricken districts; one who can give me some little help in my work of dispensing Government relief." Then, addressing Isa Dás in his native tongue, the gentleman said, "Do you wish to take service?" And he briefly described what the nature of the service would be, concluding by an offer of ten rupees a month, and all travelling expenses paid.
How readily, how joyfully was the offer accepted! Isa Dás saw himself raised at once to a position of comfort and wide usefulness, one in which he could specially glorify God by helping his fellow-creatures whilst serving an earthly patron.
"You will need doubtless to make some little preparations for your journey," said the official; "some additions to a somewhat scanty wardrobe," he added in English, with a smiling glance at the missionary. "You shall have ten rupees for your outfit, so buy whatever you need, and join me here to-morrow."
With what a light, happy heart the convert retraced his steps to the town, with eleven rupees in his kamarband! With what special pleasure he wrapt himself in the blanket bordered with red, which he could now buy with an easy conscience!
"This will always serve to remind me of the day when the performance of a simple duty led to such happy results!" thought the Christian. "It will often bring to my mind the command—'Owe no man anything but to love one another.'"
It is not always that such results follow so simple an action, but there is truth in the proverb that "Honesty is the best policy." He who is known to be trustworthy is the one likely to be put into positions of trust.