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THE WARNING.
"THE world is a room of lamp-black; the blind fall into it," says the proverb.
Assuredly Bandhu was one of the blind when he made friends with Idolatry and Vice. Yet the blind who see not danger may be saved by the friendly grasp of one who has eyes.
When a seed has been dropped into earth, he from whose hand it fell may little know that it is swelling and growing under the earth. Prem Chand thought that his advice and warnings were utterly lost upon Bandhu, that he himself had been insulted, threatened, and struck, and all to no purpose. But in this the king's messenger was mistaken.
Bandhu might wrench away his arm from the hold of his true friend, but he could not get his words out of his mind.
Scarcely had Prem Chand's form disappeared in the darkness before Bandhu began to think over what he had heard.
Bandhu looked at the face of Idolatry, dimly seen by the red firelight, and thought that, notwithstanding all his ablutions and prayers, he looked wondrously like a demon. As for Vice, no one could behold him at that moment without seeing evil stamped on his face.
"Shall I fly?" thought Bandhu. He hesitated, he doubted, he was equally afraid of going or staying. His mind was in a miserable state of indecision. Sometimes he succeeded in persuading himself that Prem Chand must be in the wrong, sometimes his own trembling heart assured him that Prem Chand must be in the right.
The fire completely died out; but behold! A soft silver light was seen behind the trees, for the moon was rising. Bandhu glanced uneasily towards the fireplace, but saw nothing of the supposed Chhatris.
"If I but knew the real truth, if I could set my mind at rest, what a relief it would be!" muttered the poor frightened boy.
Again he thought of the treasures hidden in the bag of Ignorance, they at least could give him knowledge of the truth, if there were any foundation for what Prem Chand had told him about these gifts from the king. Bandhu had always foolishly dreaded opening the bag, but a yet greater dread was upon him now, that of being murdered by Thugs.
With a trembling hand Bandhu unloosened the string which fastened the bag round his neck, and first took out the bracelet, which he slipped on his arm. There was no difficulty in doing this; but the next moment Bandhu could hardly suppress a cry of pain, for the bracelet grasped his wrist tightly, as if it would cut into the flesh, even to the bone! Here indeed was a warning against Idolatry and Vice, surely danger—great danger must be near!
In terror Bandhu pulled forth his mirror, dropping as he did so the black bag of Ignorance in which it so long had lain hidden. He gazed by the moonlight upon the mirror; from the frame flashed forth in red light the word "Beware!" And behold! In the glass Bandhu saw reflected not only his own frightened face, but almost close behind him the horrible countenances of the two Thugs, stealing up with the deadly noose in their grasp! Had he not seen them in the mirror, in another minute or two the poor boy would have been a corpse under their murderous hands!
Bandhu rushed off in terror, as the fawn flies from the cheetah, trampling Ignorance under his flying feet. But the two Thugs were determined not to lose their victim. They knew that if he escaped, he would give information against them. As the cheetah by successive springs gains on the fawn, so the Thugs gained upon Bandhu. The poor boy stumbled over the roots of a tree in his haste, and they were upon him at once.
Happily for Bandhu help was near. Prem Chand had lingered still near the lad who had insulted and struck him, and seeing the chase, now rushed with a shout to the rescue. A sudden blow from a large stick held by Prem Chand laid Idolatry bleeding and stunned on the ground. Vice, hearing the shout, and seeing his father fall, fled like a coward as he is.
Poor rescued Bandhu, thus a second time saved from a terrible fate, sobbed like a frightened child in the arms of his brave preserver.
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HEALING.
THE first care of Prem Chand was to bind Idolatry hand and foot, so that should the Thug revive, he might not be able to rise. His own noose, and the pugri which he wore, served to supply his bonds.
Bandhu was in a most distressing state. His fright seemed to have taken from him all the little sense that Superstition had left. His bracelet squeezed him like a vice, till he was half maddened by the pain. The poor boy wept; he rolled himself in the dust, and moaned out, "I am lost! I am lost!"
Prem Chand was perplexed as to what course to pursue, till he bethought himself of the mirror which Bandhu had dropped in his flight. It lay gleaming like a silver jewel in the clear light of the moon. Prem Chand raised it, and from the frame the words "Leaves of healing" shone forth. The thought struck Prem Chand that the mirror might thus be guiding him to a cure for his poor sick companion.
Some low plants grew in the shadow of the mango-tope, and Prem recognised one which he knew to be often used as medicine. He let the reflection of its leaves fall on the mirror, and immediately from the frame glimmered forth the word "Peace."
Very joyful at having thus discovered a cure for poor Bandhu, Prem Chand quickly gathered the leaves, and with them in one hand, and the mirror in the other, he hastened back to the groaning lad. It needed some persuasion to induce the sufferer to eat the healing plant; but almost the only sign of sense remaining in him was trust in his faithful friend, the messenger of the king. Bandhu could not long refuse anything offered to him by Prem Chand.
The effect of the medicine was wondrous. At once the iron-like clasp of the bracelet relaxed; the precious gift appeared as a jewel, not as a fetter. The wild beating of Bandhu's heart was stilled, and his moaning ceased. Nor was this all; the poison of Superstition, given long before by Farebwala, began gradually to give way to the strong antidote which Bandhu had taken. The lad became as one who had long sat in darkness, but upon whom daylight begins to glimmer; first, a faint streak in the east, then gradually upward rays appear, till the sun himself rises above the horizon. But an entire change was the work of time.
After giving the medicine to his companion, Prem Chand's next thought was, "What shall I do regarding this Thug, who seems to be reviving from the effects of the blow which I gave? Behold! He is struggling now to release himself from his bonds. Confederates may be near, and if they come to his help, Bandhu and I have not many minutes to live."
What a relief it was to both the friends when the trampling of hoofs was heard, and a party of mounted police appeared at daybreak. An officer on a white horse rode at their head.
When they came near to the spot, Prem Chand, advancing, made his salam to the officer, and pointing to the Thug Idolatry, he briefly related the murderous attack made by him and his son upon Bandhu. The facts were corroborated by Bandhu himself.
The officer attentively listened, then instantly rode to the place where Idolatry lay on the ground, trying to wrench his limbs from their bonds. The police had gathered around him, and recognised him.
"This is the very Thug of whom we have long been in search," said one to his officer. "Your honour knows that he has more murders on his head than there are leaves on yon tree."
"Ah! Father of evil," cried another to the Thug, "thou hast grown gray in crime, but thou wilt meet with thy punishment at last. In seeking to destroy yet another victim thou hast encountered thine own fate, as saith the proverb, 'The imprudent man has with his own hand struck the axe into his foot.'"
"Bear him away," said the officer, and the command was at once obeyed.
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THE SACRIFICE OF PRIDE.
WHEN the Thug had been carried off by the officers of justice, Prem Chand turned to Bandhu, who was sitting on the ground, supporting himself against the trunk of a tree.
"What will you do now, O brother?" said Prem Chand. "Is it still your wish to continue your pilgrimage?"
"I am as one newly awakened from a dream!" replied Bandhu. "I see that pilgrimages are vain, that ablutions cannot wash away sin, that purity is not to be won by any act of religious austerity."
Prem Chand replied in the words of Kabir—
"Say, O pundit! who is pure?Attend, O my friend! to such knowledge.In the eyes is impurity, in the speech is impurity,In rising and sitting impurity clings,Impurity falls into the food."
"I have been looking into my mirror," said Bandhu with a sigh, "and when I look on my own reflection I see that 'sinner' is written below the frame."
"Again I ask, what will you do now? Will you return to the dwelling of Farebwala?"
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Bandhu fervently. "Has he not been ruining me, body and soul?"
"Whither, then, will you go?"
Tears gushed into the eyes of Bandhu. Dropping his head from shame, in a low voice, he inquired, "Do you think that the king would still receive me?"
Then a great joy sprang up in the heart of Prem Chand. "The king loves and will welcome you!" he cried. "Yea, he is yearning to see you." But the messenger added gently, "Only of one thing I warn you: all marks of pride must be laid aside; you cannot go into the royal presence wearing a janeo."
The countenance of Bandhu fell. His soul still clung to the privileges of caste. He could give up ease, pleasure, wealth, any other thing, sooner than his cherished janeo. Was it not the sign of his superiority over many of his fellow-creatures; did it not entitle him to their respect? Must he with his own hands cast down the wall of division between them which so flattered his pride? With a heavy sigh, Bandhu replied, "With my janeo I never can part!"
Prem Chand felt that not at once can all prejudices be conquered. The tree shakes not in a day all the dry leaves from its branches. Without making any reply, Prem Chand retired to a little distance, yet within hearing of Bandhu, and softly sang, as if to himself, the words of the poet Kabir—
"Pride should not be entertained; the bones arewrapt in a skin,They who are on horseback, under an umbrella, areburied again in the earth.Pride should not be entertained; if one sees thatone's dwelling is high,To-day or to-morrow we must lie on the ground, andgrass will spring up.Pride should not be entertained; a poor one shouldnot be laughed at,That boat is still on the ocean, what do ye knowwhat will take place?Pride should not be entertained; having seen thatone's body is beautiful,To-day or to-morrow thou wilt leave it as a snakehis skin."
There was a strong but gentle pressure of the bracelet upon the wrist of Bandhu. He raised his mirror, so that he could see in it the reflection of his janeo, the emblem of caste. "Vanity of vanities" gleamed forth from the frame, and Bandhu saw his cherished janeo to be but a rotten thread, which life soils, and death snaps asunder!
Slowly and reluctantly Bandhu unfastened the cord which had been his pride, then bore it in his hand to his friend Prem Chand.
"I have no offering to bring to my king," said he, "for all that I possess, save this, I owe to his bounty. But as a token of my repentance, and a pledge of my loyal love, may I be permitted to lay down the badge of my caste at the feet of my king?"
The youth's desire was ere long to be fulfilled. As soon as Bandhu had recovered sufficient strength, he and Prem Chand started on their journey towards the royal city. Pleasant converse shortened the way. Bandhu's health improved day by day, and his mind became clearer. He constantly looked at his mirror, and never neglected the slightest warning given by the bracelet.
Great was the rejoicing in the palace when the travellers reached it in safety, and most gracious was the reception given by the king to both. Goodly apartments were assigned to each, and they ate daily at the royal table. Bandhu, instead of being the slave of a tyrant, or a victim of a Thug, found himself the possessor of every good gift, the companion of the pious, the friend of the pure, the adopted son of a king.
THE PARABLE EXPLAINED.
HAVE you not seen, O reader! Goodly trees and lofty palaces faintly reflected on some small stream, whose waters are too muddy to give back their images clearly? Yet can we say, as we gaze downwards, "There is a palace, though I see not its grandeur,—there is a tree, though its beauty I cannot behold."
My tale is even as the little troubled muddy brook in which is dimly reflected what is beauteous and grand. Listen awhile as I try to show you what are the great realities faintly imaged forth in my fable.
Mankind are as the poor helpless child left in the jungle, sick of the foul disease of sin. Even the pure-lived Nanak * was compelled by conscience to cry,—
"Keep me, O my Father, my Lord!I am without virtues; all virtues are Thine!"
* For accounts of Goru (teacher) Nanak, and the poet Kabir, see further on.
And one more enlightened than the great Goru hath written, "All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags."
Thus lying, exposed and helpless, death—even the destruction of the soul, everlasting ruin—steals upon us, as the fearful beast drew nigh to the child. How could man, guilty and hell-deserving, be saved?
Here is the grand mystery of love which the Scriptures declare, even the avatar (incarnation) of the Divine Jesus, the Son of God. He left heaven and assumed a mortal body, that in that body He might suffer and die. He came between man and eternal destruction. The love of the king who encountered a fierce tiger to save a poor child is as nothing compared to the love of the Heavenly King, who won salvation for man by the awful struggle in which He overcame death by dying.
And who is the Farebwala (father of deceit) who seeks to keep us from the knowledge of this love, in order to rob us and make us his slaves?
Behold the spirit of evil, Satan, who would hold all mankind in bondage, and tries to hide from us the knowledge of a Saviour King who is willing to adopt us as His children. To millions of Hindus, he represents heaven as peopled with monsters of iniquity, gods and goddesses so wicked that were they human beings they would be sentenced to death for their crimes!
And what are the mirror and the bracelet hidden by Farebwala under the black cover of Ignorance?
The name of the bracelet is Conscience. It is the precious gift of God; it warns us when danger to the soul, when temptation is near. But is it not too true that the conscience of those who know not the true God has been darkened? When falsehood is spoken, when covetousness is felt, when other sins are indulged in, does the unenlightened conscience give its warning pressure? Reader! Have you not learned to do evil frequently without even knowing that it is evil?
The mirror is the Word of God, the treasure of truth, now to be procured in many of the languages of the East. * Reader! Have you looked into its pages? Let me tell you something of what you would gain by studying the Holy Scriptures with prayer.
* But alas! The people are so poor, that few comparatively ever purchase a complete Bible. In this story, as written for Hindus, I have inserted the Ten Commandments, knowing that perhaps not one in a thousand of those who read my small cheap book will be in possession of the Old Testament.
You would gain KNOWLEDGE OF GOD, what His nature is, and His will. "God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth" (John iv. 24); "God is light" (1 John i. 5); and "God is love" (1 John iv. 8).
And you would gain KNOWLEDGE OF WHAT GOD REQUIRES OF MAN. Study the commandments, thus summed up in the Gospel, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" (Matt. xxii. 37-39).
Compare the righteousness of these commandments with the impure stories which the Hindus call by the name of religion. Is it not like comparing a shining river, carrying fertility through the land, to the slimy track left by a serpent? If you see not that the space between the two religions is wider than that which divides heaven from earth, it is because the enemy of your soul has drugged you with Superstition, so that you are unable to say, "Is there not a lie in my right hand?"
It is the Bible, the Mirror of Truth, that shows us that Idolatry is the parent of Vice, and that both are murderers of the soul. It may be, O Hindu! that you are at this moment travelling in the company of these dread Thugs, that this morning you did puja to some idol of brass or stone. This tale is, then, as the warning voice of a friend, of a messenger from the Great King. Have mercy on your own soul! The fatal noose is prepared, thousands have perished by it already; be warned in time. O brother! Flee and live.
But if you be one who already wears the Bracelet of Conscience, if you be one who has gazed into the Mirror of Truth, if your heart be inclined towards your Heavenly King, there is still a word for you. Are you not halting between two opinions, believing but not confessing Christ? Is there not some pride of caste which you are as loth to part with as was Bandhu to give up his janeo? Ties of family are hard to break; do you so shrink from rending them asunder that you would rather hazard your soul than leave all and go to your King?
Ah! Listen to the words of the Lord—"He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me; and he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me. Whoever shall confess Me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven" (Matt. x. 32, 37, 38).
One other point in the parable may require explanation. What are the leaves of healing that restored peace to the troubled mind, and health to the sick soul? It is the sweet assurance of forgiveness of sins through the death of Christ. He that has found a Saviour has found peace! In the precious words of Holy Writ—"Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ—and rejoice in hope of the glory of God" (Rom. v. 1, 2).
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A FEW particulars of the life of Goru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion, may not be without interest and novelty to the British reader. As mentioned in the preface, they are chiefly drawn from a short history of the Punjab, and I have thought it better to give the story of a remarkable life in the rough simplicity of the original, so as not to spoil what I may call its Oriental flavour by many words of my own.
Goru Nanak, son of Kálu, a Chhatri, was born in a village of the Punjab, since called after him Nanakana, in the year 1469, when Edward IV. sat on the English throne. At his birth wonderful things were predicted of Nanak, to his father's great delight; but when the child had grown into the lad, Kálu was by no means pleased at the ascetic turn of his son's mind. It must be owned that Nanak gave his parents just cause for vexation. Kálu wished the youth to be a good man of business. Nanak was inclined to take up the life of a wandering fakir. An instance of this disposition is given in the curious little history of the Punjab.
When Nanak was fifteen years old, his father entrusted him with twenty rupees (about £2), and said to him, "O son! Go and buy some good merchandise."
Nanak, accompanied by a servant, set forth on his quest. When he had proceeded some way, he fell in with a company of fakirs (religious beggars), destitute of food and clothing. Pitying their condition, the lad bestowed upon them the twenty rupees, in spite of the expostulations of the servant.
Nanak said in reply to these expostulations, "Oh! What better merchandise can there be than giving food to saints in the name of the Lord?"
Had the money been his own, the remark would have been beautiful, but the youth had no right to be generous with money held only in trust. Nanak returned to his home, and, as might have been expected, received a good flogging from his father.
Though Nanak in due course of time married, and became the father of two sons, family ties did not prevent his adopting the life of a wandering preacher. Nanak, like Socrates and other remarkable heathen, had glimpses of truth, though obscured by a good deal of error. His character appears to have been eminently devout, gentle, and lowly.
In the Granth we find what he thought of himself, and see how in the twilight the Goru was feeling and thirsting after God.
"In what manner shall I meet with the Lord of mylife, O Mother?I am without beauty, without intelligence or strength,I, the stranger, have come from afar;I have no wealth, no brilliancy of youth,Effect thou the union of the friendless one.O Lord! I am wandering about, thirsting after Thysight;By the Lord, who is compassionate and merciful tothe poor,My burning heat was quenched,Keep me, O my Father, my Lord!I am without virtues, all virtues are Thine."
Nanak was certainly beyond his age; he did not reverence idols, he acknowledged but one God, and earnestly, by life and example, inculcated purity of morals. We can never place Nanak in the same category with Mahomed, the sensual, the blood-stained founder of Islamism. In speaking of the Goru we cannot, as in the case of the False Prophet, bring forth his evil character as a proof that he could not have been the honoured servant of God. We rather say to the Sikhs, "We respect your Goru; we believe that were he now on earth he would become a Christian." The remark seems to give no offence.
The influence of Nanak was great. It is recorded in his life that he once visited the house of an atrocious villain, whose crimes were aggravated by hypocrisy. This man would lure victims into his retreat, throw them into prison, and then say, "Give up your property or your lives."
Goru Nanak, who knew the character of this ruffian, boldly rebuked his sins, yet tenderly, addressing him as "brother." He told the robber that though his hypocrisy might deceive others, it could not possibly deceive God, to whom all things are known.
The rebuke of the mild Goru, it is said, touched the heart of his hearer. The robber was covered with shame, and falling down at the feet of Nanak, exclaimed, "O true Goru! I am a great sinner, an evil man, but now I repent, and will do such wickedness no more!"
Nanak, on hearing this, laid his hands on the head of the penitent robber, and said, "May God forgive thy sin."
Nanak does not appear to have vehemently opposed idolatry, but how much its power was weakened by his influence is shown in the following story.
A man of the name of Lahiná went with his family to worship a certain goddess at Kangra. Arriving at the place where Nanak happened to be, Lahiná was curious to see so noted a saint, and procured an interview with the Goru.
According to custom, he prostrated himself before Nanak, who courteously inquired his name, and whither he was going. On receiving Lahiná's reply, the Goru said, "Well, brother, go and see the goddess."
But the Hindu had already changed his purpose, and he replied, "O Goru! My heart does not wish to go farther; I care no more for goddess or god; from this time my desire is to remain at your feet."
This was no passing emotion. Lahiná became Nanak's devoted follower, and afterwards his successor to the dignity of Goruship under the new name of Angad. This office of spiritual sovereign was passed on from one leader to another by a ceremony amusing from its simplicity. The reigning Goru having chosen his successor, presented him with—no jewelled crown nor sceptre of gold, but a cocoa-nut and five coppers! He then was the first to prostrate himself before the Goru to be. The Goruship was, as we here see, not hereditary; Nanak himself set the example of preferring the claim of devoted service to the tie of blood. The circumstances which influenced his choice gave an amusing glimpse into the domestic circle of the great Goru.
Nanak had two sons, named Sirichand and Lahmidás. Whatever other good qualities Nanak may have possessed, he does not appear to have possessed wisdom and firmness to manage his children judiciously. We cannot but suspect that the worthy man had been a spoiling father.
Once on a day, so goes the story, the Goru on his travels fell into a bog. He called out to Sirichand for help to get him out of his trouble.
"O father!" replied the youth. "My clothes are very nice, and they would be spoiled; I will go and send some one else to your help."
The poor Goru, floundering in the mud, made an appeal to his younger son, and from the ungrateful lad received a similar reply.
Lahiná, seeing his master's distress, joining his hands together in sign of reverence, cried, "O true Goru! What is your command?"
"To be taken out of this bog," answered Nanak.
Lahiná, less afraid that were the young Hindu fops of spoiling his clothes, plunged into the mud at once, and extricated his master.
Nanak never forgot this trait of affection; perhaps from that day the idea of elevating Lahiná to the Goruship entered his mind. He afterwards severely tested Lahiná's love and obedience, and found them firm in every trial. Nanak's heart was touched, and he warmly returned the love of his servant.
When asked one day why he showed more affection to Lahiná than to his own sons, his answer (freely translated) was as follows:—"Though Lahiná is not of my blood yet he never neglects my commands; but those who are called my sons never fulfil them. My love is for him who serves me, heart and soul."
One day, in the presence of an assembly of his Sikhs, Nanak placed before Lahiná the cocoa-nut and five coppers, which were the symbol of succession to the office of Goru. Nanak was then the first to prostrate himself before his disciple, after which, rising, he thus addressed the assembly:
"O brother Sikhs! From this day I give to him the office of Goru. Let every disciple of mine, prostrating himself, acknowledge him as such."
Nanak then changed the name of Lahiná, commanding that he should from thenceforth be known as Goru Angad.
Angad was thus the second of the ten Gorus who reigned in succession over the Sikhs. They were treated with such adoring reverence as man should render to the Supreme Being alone. To the Sikh his Goru stood almost in the place of his God. The first Gorus, however, appear to have been meek and gentle-spirited men.
The following anecdote is characteristic, and shows that though the sons of Goru Nanak were not permitted by their father to inherit his spiritual dignity, they were yet treated with great respect for his sake.
The fourth Goru, Rámdas, was once in the company of Sirichand, he who, in his youth, had preferred keeping his fine clothes unspotted to helping his father out of the bog. It might be expected that some jealousy would arise in the heart of Sirichand, seeing thus a third Goru in the position to which, from his birth, he might naturally have aspired. The conversation between the two men is curious.
Beholding the long beard of Goru Rámdas, the son of Nanak said, "O Rámdas Ji! Wherefore has your beard grown so long?"
Rámdas, with Oriental courtesy, replied, "O true king! It has grown long in order to wipe the dust from your feet!"
Nanak's son exclaimed, with generous admiration of the ruler's humility, "Brother, showing such love, you have obtained power to hold the Goruship, and we, who were sons, remain free from envy."
I cannot refrain from adding the story of this Rámdas's elevation to the Goruship, it being one of those pleasing anecdotes which soften the hard, dry lines of history.
At an early age Rámdas had married the little daughter of the third Goru, Amrdás. The youthful wife and her husband took pleasure in rendering any act of menial service to her father the Goru. One day her parent, seated on a chair, was performing his ablutions, his daughter pouring water over his feet, when accidently a nail of the chair ran into the poor girl's foot. Instead of starting or crying out with the sudden pain, the Goru's daughter thought to herself, "If I lift my foot, my father, seeing my blood, will forget his ablutions;" so, with rare fortitude, the young Sikh did not change her position.
The blood from her wounded foot, however, trickling from under the seat, attracted the Goru's attention. "Daughter!" he cried, "from whence does this blood come?"
In the simple words of the native narrator, "the girl, not thinking it right to tell lies, on her father's asking her again and again, told him the truth."
The father, deeply touched by his child's loving reverence, tenderly kissed her, and said, "I have nothing else now to bestow on you, but from this day forth I present you with the Goruship."
The offer tells more of parental affection than of wisdom, for a female Goru would have been somewhat analogous to a female Pope. Happily the daughter showed more sense than her parent. The young Sikh shrank back from the strange post of spiritual leadership to which her father's love would have raised her.
Joining her hands, she cried, "O true Goru, my father! Give this dignity to my husband!"
Amrdás saw the propriety of the request, and Rámdas, through this dutiful daughter and wife, was raised to the leadership of the Sikhs.
The Sikh religion is far purer than that of the Hindus, but has unhappily become much corrupted by its professors mingling with the idolaters around them. I have heard an enthusiastic Sikh complaining of the idolatry carried on even in the precincts of the famous centre of Sikh worship, the Golden Temple of Amritsar.
The Sikhs give one the impression of their being a bold, cheerful, kindly people, who would be (as we proved them to be) formidable foes in war, but frank friends in peace. In the Sikh campaigns they almost shook our Indian Empire, but not long afterwards, in the more terrible Indian Mutiny, our late foes stood faithfully by us.
I once asked an experienced missionary, "If you were in danger in a mixed crowd of Mahomedans, Hindus, and Sikhs, to which of the three would you look for help?"
"I would cling to the arm of the Sikh," was the reply; and it pleased me as showing that my friend's riper judgment coincided with my own. It appears to me that the Sikh is more friendly than the Mahomedan, more manly than the Hindu.
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A LITTLE of Kabir's poetry having been quoted in "The Mirror and the Bracelet," a few particulars regarding the author himself may not be out of place.
Kabir, a weaver by trade, born of Mahomedan parents, lived in the fifteenth century. His poetry is therefore very much older than that of Spencer or Shakespeare. Portions of the writings of this ancient poet have been incorporated in the Granth, and from their sarcastic humour, form to an English reader one of the most attractive parts. Dr. Trumpp remarks that "Kabir the weaver is to be regarded as the author of the whole reformatory movement going on in India during the Middle Ages." There is still a sect bearing the name of this very remarkable man.
How little Kabir the weaver was influenced by either Hindu superstitions or Mahomedan traditions is shown by the following extraordinary poem, in which he ridicules alike the sacred books of both:—
"Thou shouldst ride on thy own reflection!Thou shouldst put foot into the stirrup of tranquillity,Apply the nose-ring, put on the bridle,All decoration, and make (it) run about in the sky.Go on, I will take thee to Paradise.If thou draw back I will strike thee with the whipof love.Kabir says these are good ridersWho keep aloof from the Veda * and the Koran."
* The Vedas are the Scriptures of the Hindu, the Koran (or Quran) those of the Mahomedans. Kabir would have men keep clear of both.
Some other extracts from this Oriental poet appear worthy of being placed before English readers who are not likely to obtain a sight of Dr. Trumpp's voluminous and learned translation of the book so dear to the Sikhs.
In most quaint language Kabir thus expresses a very deep truth:—
"By the saints the butter is eaten, the world drinks the buttermilk."
A Christian might have written the following verse:—
"The saints have died; why should weeping be madethat they go to their homeThe stars at dawn pass away, so the world passes away."
Like Goru Nanak, in his writings the gifted weaver expresses deep humility:—
"Every one says (I am) good, good: no one considers(himself) bad.Kabir says, I am the worst of all; every one is goodexcept me.Who considers himself in this light, he is my friend."
With playful irony the poet says to some Oriental fop:—
"On which head (thou art) arranging and fastening aturban,That head the bill of the crow will dress."
Then the light but keen edge of his wit strikes the hoarder of wealth:—
"To the miser wealth is given for the sake of keeping it,The fool says 'The property is mine.'When the staff of Zama (death) is struck on his head,The matter is decided in a moment."
Thus Kabir writes of the Mahomedan's loud formal call to prayer:—
"O Mullah! why ascendest thou the minaret? TheLord is not deaf.For whose sake thou makest the call, behold himeven in (thy) heart."
Superstition and idolatry are boldly rebuked by Kabir:—
"Some one does not obey his living father,When he dies he causes a Shradh to be said for him.How shall the helpless defunct fathers also obtain(the offering),The crow and the dog eat it.""Having made a Devi Deva (images) of earth,Thou sacrificest before them an animal.An animate being they slaughter, and worship alifeless thing.""The gardener breaks off leaves (to offer to an idol), inthe leaves, in the leaves—life,The stone, for the sake of which he breaks off theleaves, is lifeless."
May it not be desirable for the Christian missionary addressing a heathen audience, to arrest attention by an occasional apt quotation from the writings of Kabir the weaver?
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THE DOCTOR'S CHARMS.
SHIV DÁS was a Hindu doctor, widely famed for his skill. He knew the qualities of all manner of herbs, and the secret of cures for every sort of disease. Men afflicted with divers maladies came to him from great distances, and often returned to their villages rejoicing. Lame men from the effect of Shiv Dás's ointments sometimes threw away their crutches; women carried their sick children to his house as to the shrine of a goddess. Shiv Dás gave not only medicines, but he hung charms round the necks of his patients; he not only rubbed on ointments, but he muttered a number of spells. If he failed in making a cure, he said that the gods were not propitious; if a patient died under his care, he declared that the day had been unlucky. Shiv Dais was a clever doctor, but he was also a great liar; he had real skill, but under it lay a great deal of deceit, as under the sweet mango pulp is hidden the large hard stone.
Shiv Dás never felt any remorse or shame for his lying till he met with, and had much talk with a follower of the God of Truth. He saw a man whose character, compared to his own, was as the pure stream to the stagnant pool, a man who would not have told a lie to save his own life. Shiv Dás at first thought this man a fool, but after nearer acquaintance reverenced him as a saint. The Hindu listened as the teacher told of Christ the Great Physician, whose touch was healing, whose words were wisdom, and whose gift is life eternal. Gradually on the Hindu doctor broke the light of Truth. His intelligent mind received it long before he could resolve openly to confess that he believed the Christian's Holy Book, which he only studied in secret.
The great difficulty to Shiv Dás was simply this. "If I become a Christian, how much I shall have to give up. I am like a poor potter, or unclean maker of shoes; I have a great deal to lose. Who will come to me for cure when I shall have broken caste, and in the eyes of man incurred defilement. Will any one believe in my skill if I cease to prepare charms, and give only drugs and ointment? Shall I own to patients that my spells were but muttered lies? Does the seller of fruit ever call her own plums sour?"
Such thoughts as these for a time distressed Shiv Dás, and kept him back from confessing his faith. He continued cheating others, after he had left off cheating himself. But this struggle with conscience could not go on very long. Shiv Dás saw that the road of falsehood is the path to hell, that light and darkness, fire and water can as well agree together as the religion of the Lord Jesus with the deceit which had brought in the chief part of the doctor's gains. Shiv Dás must choose between earthly loss and disgrace, and the terrible punishment which, after death, awaits the unrepenting deceiver. He must choose between sin and a Saviour. The convert bravely made his choice.
One night, when the crescent moon faintly shone through the leaves of the peepul trees, Shiv Dás threw his charms into a well, after having, prostrate on the ground, asked forgiveness for having ever used them. He then returned to his home, and throwing himself on his charpai (bed), enjoyed sweeter rest than he had known for months. In the morning the doctor rose, went to his teacher the missionary, and asked to be admitted into the Christian Church. A few weeks later the water of baptism was poured on the convert's brow, and he who had begun a new life received a new name, Shiv Dás became Isa Dás. *
* Signifying "Servant of Jesus," instead of "Servant of Shiva."
At first the doctor appeared to be ruined. He was reviled in the streets, insulted in the bazaars, more than once he was beaten. It was not easy for him to gain pice enough to satisfy hunger; he had to make his own chapattis, and of the coarsest grain. Women declared that they would as soon let their children die as be cured by drugs polluted by the touch of the Christian.
But gradually even their prejudices softened a little towards him. A time of great sickness came, and the people felt the need of a doctor. They remembered the many cures wrought by Isa Dás; they began to think that even without spells his drugs might give them relief from their pain.
A case which occurred at this time had no small influence in turning the tide of opinion.
A child, the favourite child of its Hindu mother, was smitten with sore sickness. An ignorant fakir was applied to, but notwithstanding all his charms and spells, his patient evidently grew worse and worse.
"Have done with your mutterings; my darling is dying," cried the mother in desperation at last. "Shiv Dás, or whatever he chooses now to be called, saved my boy's life once, and I will ask him to save it again, were every Brahmin in Hindustan to curse me!"
The mother took up in her arms the poor moaning child, whose every gasp seemed likely to be his last. She folded her chaddar closely around him, and with hurried steps sought the mud hut which was now the Christian doctor's abode.
"Can you save him?" she cried, laying her almost expiring child at the feet of Isa Dás.
"God can," was the Christian's reply.
"Have you no charm?" sobbed the trembling mother.
"My only charm is asking God's blessing on my medicines," replied Isa Dás.
Very earnestly did the Christian ask that blessing. Not only from pity for the mother and her suffering child, but because he saw that on his success or failure in this difficult case not only the little one's life, but (humanly speaking) his own future livelihood might depend.
Isa Dás mixed his drugs; he gave them with humble prayer, and with faith committed the result to God. After a while the child's moanings gave place to perfect stillness.
"He is dead!" exclaimed the trembling mother.
Isa Dás smiling said, "Thank God! He has dropped asleep at last!"
The child made a good recovery, and from that time Isa Dás had almost as many patients as before his baptism. The most prejudiced Hindu, when seriously ill, preferred to be cured by one who had broken caste, to dying in an orthodox way.