A PICTURE OF HEATHENISM.
By Nora M. Yates
Poojah is the one time in every year, either in September or October, when an image representing the wife of one of the Hindu gods is erected. Her spirit comes on horseback, in answer to the beating of drums, enters this bundle of mud, stones, and sticks, after which, for three days, thousands of people worship before and sacrifice to her. The Hindu worships a creator, a preserver, and a destroyer; and this idol's husband (Durgi) is the destroyer. Wednesday evening Mr. Moore went with us to have a look at the thing. All day long people had passed by the compound, and the beating of drums was constant. The figure itself was built upon a pedestal, and against a very elaborate background. She was life size, had ten arms; one was clasping a spear, which had just been thrust into the heart of her husband, who (in mud and plaster) crouched at her feet; one of her other hands held his hair. A mud tiger was mixed up in the thing, also. The whole was brightly painted, and well lighted up by small bowls of mustard oil, upon which floated a burning wick. Before the image was a little of everything that came into the possession of these people,—beautiful silk cloths, pice, fine fresh fruit, flowers, etc., which had all been offered that day. A regular wild Indian band made the air vocal with its noise. A priest inside the railing was dancing back and forth, keeping time to the dire sounds, and waving the cloths, fruit, and other offerings before her. Incense was burned; people came and went constantly, kneeling before the sacred(?) place; hundreds of women, kept so securely from the vulgar gaze of men on ordinary days, come, with face all covered, kneel before this thing, and go away again to be secluded until next year. All night Wednesday the noise kept up, and the bleating of little kids told us that they were collecting for the bloody sacrifice of Thursday. You know I have told you that the Hindu religion has almost as many castes as the notions of men (not of women, for they do as they are ordered), and while one caste won't kill even an insect, another caste slaughters for remission of sins. At twelve o'clock Thursday sixty goats and kids were killed. A place was arranged just in front of the god, and at one blow the head was severed from the body. The blood was sprinkled over her and the ground all about; the priests took the head, and the men who brought the offering were allowed to have the body. I think I never saw a sight that touched my heart with such pity,—the faces of the hundreds who pressed about,651seeking remission of sin through the merit of that blood spilt before a bundle of sticks and mud in form of a woman. Mr. Moore sold some books, and talked to several of the priests who stood about. They do not hesitate to say, “Oh, we are educated, and know better; but these ignorant ones must have somebody to offer their requests for them.” And so, for the gain (which is large, for all the pice, rupees, and cloth is theirs, of course), they practice such sinful delusions. What will be their portion on the judgment day? We had breakfast early on Thursday, and from this slaughter-house scene (for so it seemed to me) I went under a little shed, where some of our women were selling fruit and rice, and sitting there, near the highway, distributed tracts and books. Some women came up to have a look at the “white women;” they had never seen me before, and had walked ten miles to come and offer before this god. They said everybody was dying where they were, and to-day they had begged the priest to have Durgi be merciful to them. . . . We went from this place to the market place, and stayed until dark. It seemed to me I never sang, “My Jesus, I love thee, I know thou art mine,” with so much real appreciation as I did that evening, when, after dinner, we waited to ask God's blessing upon the truth taught that day. Oh, you do not imagine how awful is the darkness of idolatry! Friday morning Laura and I went at seven o'clock to speak to the women in the houses. The first place we stopped at a poor woman with a poorer baby in her arms sat outside in the sun; near her crouched another child; all three had fever. We asked her if she had time to see some pictures and hear some words. Her pitiful face looked into ours, and she said, “I can't do anything else; I am too sick to work.” We found sticks to sit upon, and a hoe handle made a fine place to hang the pictures. An audience was not long in finding us. When the children and other women saw our trap and pony in the road, they came very soon. . . . And all over India this sort of thing had been going on for four days, and the messengers of our King, the world's Saviour, were likewise busy. We know these heathen practices are losing ground. God's word is true, and the day is approaching when truth shall reign. I know now as never before that this great mass of paganism feels a want,—a want that is beyond their supply. I never realized the awful darkness of paganism before. So I ask, with more feeling of my need than ever before, that loved ones at home and workers in the churches pray for God's blessing upon the word as it will be read by those who took gospels and tracts. Thousands were distributed.—Nora M. Yates.