‘Jan. 25, 1883.—One is so apt to feel for the poor, down-trodden Muhammadan women, that, until I began to read a novelette written by a Native, I had no idea how they sometimes turn the tables on their husbands. I am reading the book with N. N., who quite confirms the truthfulness of the picture. It appears that a woman will sometimes be asked a question ten times by her husband, before she vouchsafes an answer. Some women burn the soles of their shoes, and make a preparation of them to put on the eyes, believing that by this strange superstitious means they will always keep their husbands under their feet! With all the talk about Woman’s Rights, we have hardly got so far as this!’
‘Feb. 20.—Mera Bhatija and I took rather a long walk this afternoon, to look at a lovely little mosque. I had said before to Francis, “How is it that the mosques are so beautiful, and our churches here—unless expensively built—so ugly?” Francis gave me a simple but good reason: “We want people to go into our churches; the Muhammadans worship outside theirs.” You see, love, we have first to think of room and comfort; so beauty gets shoved into a corner.
‘We went to look more closely at the graceful mosque, to see if we could gain hints. I made a rough sketch of the front. Francis says that it would be much too expensive for us to have anything so ornamental. We want room for one hundred people at least; and that dot of a mosque would hold comparatively very few. Mera Bhatija thinks that we might indulge in two minarets, and ornament our church with clay vessels turned upside down, and painted white, with a little Cross on the top of each. We must have a good-sized Cross, gilt, to glitter in the sun, on the top of all.... The Cross is our Banner, the Sign of Faith in the Son of God, rejected by Muhammadan and Hindu! It should crown—and sparkle on, too—every religious edifice in this land.’
‘March 8, 1883.—I had an extraordinary conversation with a Muhammadan boy to-day. His name is Y. He lives in what I consider a nest of bigotry. I am more likely to have to dispute there than in any other place in Batala. I had with me, besides my Bible, the “Mirror of the Heart,” which contains beautifully coloured pictures of the human heart, with allegorical vices represented by various animals, the serpent, rat, etc. It is a valuable help to a Missionary. The first heart is that of the natural man, before repentance; the second, that of a man repenting. The fourth is a horrid heart, of a dingy colour, with a black cross in it, and seven devils, mounted on the bad emblems, wanting to get in. It is the heart of a hypocrite. Well, dear one, I was showing this picture in a Zenana, and a grave-looking boy, to whom before I had given a portion of Scripture, and who I think once studied in our Mission-School, Y., was close beside me. When I had gone over the various pictures, I said to Y., “Which of these hearts,”—showing the first and second,—“is like yours?” I meant, “Are you repenting or unrepenting?” The boy, perhaps fourteen years of age, would not agree that either was like his. To my surprise he made me turn over to the fourth heart, and told me that was like his.
‘“But it is not a Muhammadan’s heart,” said I. “You see the Cross is in it,—but it is black.”
‘“And how do you know,” said the boy gravely, “that the Cross is not in my heart?” I think that he repeated this touching question afterwards. In short, he kept firmly to his declaration that that heart was the one like his. What is passing in that lad’s soul? Does he consider himself a hypocrite, with seven devils surrounding him? If so, he must be a hypocrite as regards Muhammadanism?—for he does not pretend to be a Christian. I suspect that this may be the case. He has a cross, but it is a black one, because he does not confess the Saviour.
‘There is a great change in dear ——‘s mother. (You remember perhaps the dear lad in a bigoted home, who so loved the Lord Jesus, bore persecution for Him, and died in peace.) My last visit to that house was so different to the first! On the first occasion I left the place so shocked, that I uttered the exclamation as I went, “God have mercy on you!” I do not think that I ever left any other house with such an exclamation on my lips. The last time I left the house with the exclamation, “God grant!” The mother had told me the story of her eldest brother, a policeman, who, like her son, had become Christian in heart, and incurred the fierce anger of his father by speaking against Muhammad. A Suni[112] had stabbed the policeman in the side with a knife; but the Christian refused to prosecute. He was very gentle, just like the nephew who followed in his steps. The policeman left Lahore,—this was more than twenty years ago,—and has never been heard of since. Probably he is numbered in the noble army of martyrs.
‘I said, “I think that both your brother and son are with the Lord Jesus.” “Without doubt!” cried this once bigoted woman. I urged her to follow them, and asked her if she had no love for the Lord in her heart. “He is the Apple of my eye,” she replied. You must not suppose, love, that there is any immediate prospect of Baptism; but I talked to her about it; and, as I have mentioned, left the house with a “God grant!”’