<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<h3>Principalities, Powers, Rulers</h3>
<div class='cap'>IT may seem a quick transition from nursery to battle-field;
but rightly to understand this story, it must be remembered
that our nursery is set in the midst of the
battle-field. It is a little sheltered place, where no sound of
war disturbs the babies at their play, and the flowers bloom
like the babies in happy unconsciousness of battles, and
make a garden for us and fill it full of peace; but underlying
the babies' caresses and the sweetness of the flowers
there is always a sense of conflict just over, or soon coming
on. We "let the elastic go" in the nursery. We are happy,
light-hearted children with our children; sometimes we even
wonder at ourselves; and then remember that the happiness of
the moment is a pure, bright gift, not meant to be examined,
but just enjoyed, and we enjoy it as if there were no
battles in the world or any sadness any more.</div>
<p>And yet this book comes hot from the fight. It is not a
retrospect written in the calm after-years, when the outline
of things has grown indistinct and the sharpness of life is
blurred. There is nothing mellowed about a battle-field.
Even as I write these words, the post comes in and brings
two letters. One tells of a child of twelve in whom the
first faint desires have awakened to lead a different life.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</SPAN></span>
"She is a Temple girl. Pray that she may have grace to
hold on; and that if she does, we may be guided through
the difficult legal complications. Poor little girl! It makes
one sick to think of her spoiled young life!" The other is
a Tamil letter, about another child who is in earnest, so far
as the writer can ascertain, to escape from the life planned
out for her. She learned about Jesus at school, and responded
in her simple way; but was suddenly taken from school, and
shut up in the back part of the house and not allowed to
learn any more. "Like a little dove fluttering in a cage,
so she seemed to me. But she is a timid dove, and the
house is full of wickedness. How will she hold out against
it? By God's grace I was allowed to see her for one moment
alone. I gave her a little Gospel. She kissed it with her
eyes" (touched her eyes with it), "and hid it in her dress."</p>
<p>Only a little while ago we traced a bright young
Brahman girl to a certain Temple house, and by means of
one of our workers we made friends with her. The child, a
little widow, was ill, and was sent to the municipal hospital
for medicine. It was there our worker met her, and the
child whispered her story in a few hurried words. She had
been kidnapped (she had not time to tell how), and shut up
in the Temple house, and told she must obey the rules of
the house and it was useless to protest. "If we could help
you," she was asked, "would you like to come to us?"
The child hesitated—the very name "Christian" was abhorrent
to her—but after a moment's doubt she nodded, and then
slipped away. Our worker never saw her again. The conversation
must have been noticed by the child's escort, and
reported. She was sent off to another town, and all
attempts to trace her failed.</p>
<div class="sidenote">"The Great"</div>
<p>And the god to whom these young child-lives are
dedicated? In South India all the greater symbols of deity
are secluded in the innermost shrine, the heart of the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</SPAN></span>
Temple. In our part of the country the approach to the
shrine is always frequented by Brahman priests, who would
never allow the foreigner near, even if he wished to go
near. "Far, far! remove thyself far!" would be the
immediate command, did any polluting presence presume to
draw near the shrine. There are idols by the roadside, and
these are open to all; but they are lesser creations. The
Great, as the people call that which the Temple contains, is
something apart. It is to these—The Great—that little
children are dedicated; the whole Temple system is worked
in their name.</p>
<p>"Have you ever seen the god to whom your little ones
would have been given?" is a question we are often asked;
and until a few days ago we always answered, "Never." But
now we have seen it, seen it unexpectedly and unintentionally,
as we waited for an opportunity to talk to the
crowds of people who had assembled to see it being
ceremonially bathed. We cannot account for our being
allowed to see it, except by the fact that the Brahmans
had withdrawn for the moment, and we being, as our
custom is, in Indian dress, were not noticed in the crowd.</p>
<p>Near the place where the idol was being bathed, with
much pomp by the priests, was a little rest-house, where we
had waited till some child told us all was over. Then we
came out and mingled with the throng, not fearing they
would misunderstand our motive. While we talked with
them, the Brahmans, who had been bathing in the river
after the water had been sanctified by the god, began to
stream up the steps and pass through the crowd, which
opened respectfully and made a wide avenue within itself:
for well the smallest child in that crowd understood that
no touch might defile those Brahmans as they walked,
wringing out their dripping garments and their long
black hair.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>How we searched the faces as they passed!—sensual,
cynical, cold faces, faces of utter carelessness, faces full of
pride and aloofness. But there were some so different—earnest
faces, keen faces, faces sensitive and spiritual. Oh,
the pathos of it all! How our hearts went out to these,
whose eager wistfulness marked them out as truly religious
and sincere! How we longed that they should hear the
word, "Come unto Me, and I will give you rest"! They
passed, men young and old, women and children, and very
many widows; and then suddenly two palanquins which
had been standing near were carried down to the awning
where the idol had been bathed; and before we realised
what was happening, they passed us. In the first was the
disk, the symbol of the god; in the second, the god itself.</p>
<p>"We wrestle not against flesh and blood; but against
principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the
darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high
places"—this was the word that flashed through us then.
That small, insignificant, painted, and bejewelled image, in
its gaudy little palanquin, was not only that. It was the
visible representative of Powers.</p>
<p>We thought of a merry child in our nursery who was
dedicated at birth to this particular Power. By some glad
chance that little girl was the first to run up to us in welcome
upon our return home in the evening. We thought of her
with thankfulness which cannot be expressed; but the
sorrow of other children bound to this same god swept
over us as we stood gazing after the palanquins, till they
became a coloured blur in the shimmering sunshine. There
was one such, a bright little child of eight, who was in
attendance upon an old blind woman belonging to that
Temple. "Yes," she had answered to our distressed
questions, "she is my adopted daughter. Should I not
have a daughter to wait upon me and succeed me? How<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</SPAN></span>
can I serve the god, being blind?" We thought of another,
only six, who was to be given to the service "when she
was a suitable age." Her parents were half-proud and
half-ashamed of their intention; and when they knew we
were aware of it, they denied it, and we found it impossible
to do anything.</p>
<div class="sidenote">"Only as Souls"</div>
<p>We turned to the people about us. They were laughing
and chatting, and the women were showing each other the
pretty glass bangles and necklets they had bought at the
fair. Glorious sunshine filled the world, the whole bright
scene sparkled with life and colour, and all about us was
a "lucid paradise of air." But "only as souls we saw the
folk thereunder," and our spirit was stirred within us. There
is something very solemn in such a scene—something that
must be experienced to be understood. The pitiful triviality,
the sense of tremendous forces at work among these
trivialities; the people, these crowds of people, absorbed in
the interests of the moment—and Eternity so near; all this
and much more presses hard upon the spirit till one understands
the old Hebrew word: "The burden which the
prophet did see."</p>
<p>Does this sound intolerant and narrow, as if no good
existed outside our own little pale? Surely it is not so.
We are not ignorant of the lofty and the noble contained
in the ancient Hindu books; we are not of those who cannot
recognise any truth or any beauty unless it is labelled with
our label. We know God has not left Himself without
witnesses anywhere. But we know—for the Spirit of Truth
Himself has inspired the description—how desolate is the
condition of those who are without Christ. We dare not
water down the force of such a description till the words mean
practically nothing. We form no hard, presumptuous creed
as to how the God of all the earth will deal with these
masses of mankind who have missed the knowledge of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</SPAN></span>
Him here; we know He will do right. But we know, with
a knowledge which is burnt into us, how very many of the
units live who compose these masses. We know what they
are missing to-day, through not knowing our blessed
Saviour as a personal, living Friend; and we know what
it means to the thoughtful mind to face an unknown
to-morrow.</p>
<p>A Hindu in a town in the northern part of our district
lay dying. He knew that death was near, and he was in
great distress. His friends tried to comfort him by reminding
him of the gods, and by quoting stanzas from the
sacred books; but all in vain. Nothing brought him any
comfort, and he cried aloud in his anguish of soul.</p>
<p>Then to one of the watchers came the remembrance of
how, as a little lad, he had seen a Christian die. In his
desperation at the failure of all attempts to comfort the
dying man, he thought of this one little, far-back memory;
and though he could hardly dare to hope there would be
much help in it, he told it to his friend. The Christian
was Ragland, the missionary. He was living in a little
house outside the town, when a sudden hæmorrhage surprised
him, and he had no time to prepare for death. He
just threw himself upon his bed, and looking up, exclaimed,
"Jesus!" and passed in perfect peace. Outside the window
was a little Hindu boy, unobserved by any in the house. He
had climbed up to the window, and, leaning in, watched all
that happened, heard the one word "Jesus," saw the quick
and peaceful passing; and then slipped away unnoticed.</p>
<p>The dying Hindu listened as his friend described it to
him. And this little faint ray was the only ray of comfort
that lightened the dark way for him.</p>
<p>Compare that experience with this:—</p>
<div class="sidenote">"Oh for a Love——"</div>
<p>The missionary to whom this tale was told by the Hindu
who had tried to console his dying friend, was himself<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</SPAN></span>
smitten with dangerous illness, and lay in the dim borderland,
unable to think or frame a prayer. Then like the
melody of long familiar music, without effort, without
strain, came the calming words of the old prayer: "Lighten
our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great
mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night;
for the love of Thine only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ."</p>
<p>Could any two scenes present a more moving contrast?
Could any contrast contain a more persuasive call?</p>
<p>As we went in and out among the crowd, there were
many who turned away uninterested; but some listened, and
some sat down by the wayside to read aloud, in the sing-song
chant of the East, the little booklets or Gospels we
gave them. We, who are constantly among these people,
feel our need of a fresh touch, as we speak with them
and see them day by day. We need renewed compassions,
renewed earnestness. It is easy to grow accustomed to
things, easy to get cool. We pray not only for those at
home, who as yet are not awake to feel the eloquence and
the piteousness of the great "voiceless silence" of these
lands, but we pray for ourselves with ever deepening
intensity:—</p>
<div class='poem'>
Oh for a love, for a burning love, like the fervent flame of fire!<br/>
Oh for a love, for a yearning love, that will never, never tire!<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Lord, in my need I appeal unto Thee;</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Oh, give me my heart's desire!</span><br/></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</SPAN></span></p>
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