OH, aunt Bertha, I am so glad I came early to-day, so that we can have a good long talk;" and Jenny Wells threw both arms round her aunt Bertha, and kissed her affectionately.
“You know I am always glad to see you dear," her aunt said kindly, as she helped Jenny to take off her wraps. "But what do you propose the subject of our afternoon's talk should be?”
“I want to hear about India, please Auntie. Miss Morgan called at our house this morning to leave a message for her papa, but she could not stay, for she said she was going to say good-bye to a very dear friend who was about to sail for India, as a Zenana teacher. I asked Miss Morgan to tell me about it, but she said, 'I cannot stay now, dear, or I shall lose the train for W.,' but just as we got to the garden gate she added ‘Ask your aunt Bertha, Jenny, for I think she will be able to tell you more about Hindoo girls and their needs than I could,' so Auntie you see I am all attention;” and Jenny drew a low chair up to her aunt's work-table.
The Zenana schools, or missions, as they are sometimes called, are an attempt made by loving, large-hearted Christian women to gain admittance to the private apartments of the girls and women of India, in order to tell them about the Lord Jesus and His love in dying for sinners. But I must try to tell you a little about the homes of Indian girls, or you will be unable to understand why the gospel can only be carried to them by women. I do not think any Hindoo girls ever get birthday presents or New Year's gifts. Even their own fathers are often very unkind to them, and seem to give all their love and care to their sons, and will often hardly speak to their daughters.
They do not go to any day or Sunday school, but are taught by their mothers how to plait their hair, paint their faces, cook rice, and embroider on silk or muslin. If the parents are poor, they sometimes allow their daughters to go to the well for water, or to the market to buy food, always taking care that their faces are quite covered with a large white or blue cotton veil; but if the parents are of high caste, their daughters never go out except when carried by native servants in a kind of covered chair, or box, called a palanquin, or palky.
“Most of the Hindoo girls marry when they are very young, often when not more than nine or ten years of age. Shall we follow one to her new home? It is in the house of her husband's mother, who often treats her daughter-in-law very unkindly. The young wife has to cook her husband's food and wait upon him, but is not allowed to take her meals with her husband, or even speak to him except he speaks to her first. If she fails in pleasing her husband or his mother, they often beat her in a very cruel way.
“If her husband dies, she is still worse off. His relations tell her that the idols they worship are angry with her, and that her sins have caused the death of her husband; they often turn the widow out of doors to starve or beg. Many widows were burnt alive with the dead bodies of their husbands, but I am glad to be able to tell you that in the year 1829, when a great part of India was acquired by the English, a law was passed to forbid widow burning, or the ‘Rite of Suttee,' as the horrid custom was called.”
“I am glad such dreadful things can't be done now," Jenny said, with a long sigh of relief; "but, please Auntie, I don't think I quite understood what you meant just now by the words high caste.'”
“The Hindoos are divided into several classes, called castes. Each caste keeps itself to itself, as we say sometimes, and will not even eat with the members of another caste. Those of high caste will refuse to give a drink of water or a piece of bread to one of a lower caste. But in one thing high and low caste Hindoos are alike: they want salvation—a salvation of which many of them have never heard, for as soon as a Hindoo becomes a Christian he loses his caste, and is often called to suffer the loss of all his property and friends for Christ's sake. But I have not told you anything about Indian babies yet, have I, Jenny?”
“Oh, no, aunt Bertha, and I am sure I should like to hear about them; you know I am so fond of babies.”
“Up to the year 1804, a large number of girl-babies were killed every year in India, sometimes by their own mothers. Many were thrown into the river Ganges; and even after British law in India had done all in its power to save the babies, when there was a bad harvest or a long dry season, the Hindoo priests told the people that these things happened to them because the gods of the river were angry that no more children were thrown into the river. One of the Lord's servants who for some years preached the gospel in India, told me once how (in the Lord's hands) he was the means of saving a dear little baby from being drowned, and as I am sure you will be interested, I will tell you the story of THE HINDOO MOTHER.
“The heat of the day was over, and Mr. S., who had been preaching in a native village some miles from where he lived, was riding slowly homewards, when he caught sight of a small company of Hindoos, who seemed anxious to avoid observation, making their way to the Ganges. Mr. S. drew rein, and watched them for a short time, and soon felt sure that they were going to drown a baby, not openly, as would once have been done, but in a more secret way.
“First walked several priests carrying idols, gongs, and large bunches of flowers; these were followed by another, who carried the baby, gaily dressed, and with its face painted red and black. The mother of the infant followed; Mr. S. could not see her face, as she wore a veil, but her head was bowed, and Mr. S. felt sure she was in trouble. Could he save the baby? No English friend or Christian was near him, but he remembered the words of the Lord Jesus, ‘It is not the will of your Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.' (Matt. 18:14.) In another moment his mind was made up. He was going to try; for would not the God whom he served be near him, and teach him what to say and do?
“Mr. S. now saw that the party, whose movements he had been watching, had almost reached the bank of the river, and he must ride as quickly, as possible over some rough ground.
“Was he too late? you ask. As he came within speaking distance of the party, he saw an old priest throw the baby into the river, while his attendants waved flowers and beat a gong. But the love for her child was too strong and deep in the heart of the poor mother to be crushed out even by the false teaching of these cruel priests. Springing into the stream, which in some parts is very narrow, she grasped the baby, and brought it safely to land. The old priest now became very angry, and began to scold her, saying that the gods of the river would punish her by killing her husband if she would not part with the baby. The poor mother seemed very much frightened, and trembled all over. The priest took the baby out of her arms, and was about to throw it again into the river, when Mr. S., who came up at that moment, took hold of his arm, saying as he did so, ‘Do you not know that the Queen of England is also Empress of India; and her laws forbid children being thrown into the Ganges?'
“The priest who knew that he was doing wrong, was glad to make his escape, followed by his attendants. Mr. S. then returned the infant to its mother, and told her in very simple words of a God of whom she had never heard. When he spoke of God's love in giving His Son to die for sinners she said, tears of joy filling her eyes, ‘I will always pray to the Christians' God, He is so good; and I will teach my baby to love and serve Him too.' Mr. S. then gave her a copy of the Gospel of John printed in her native language, which she gladly promised to learn to read. He then continued his ride homewards, very glad and thankful that he had been the means of saving even one Hindoo baby from a watery grave.
How long sometimes a day appears,
And weeks how long are they;
Months move as slowly as if years
Would never pass away.
Both months and years are passing by,
And soon must all be gone
For day by day as minutes fly,
Eternity comes on.
Days, months and years must have an end,
Eternity has none;
'Twill always have as long to spend,
As when it first begun.
Great God! an infant cannot tell
How such a thing can be;
I only pray that I may dwell
That long, long time with Thee.
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