Chapter 7.
It was the beginning of 1883, the fourth year after Hsi’s conversion. Unconsciously, he was drawing near a time of crisis. New developments were at hand, destined to throw light upon the problem and lead to his life work.
Twenty miles north of the scholar’s village, on the main road to the capital of the province, stood the city of Hung-tung, guardian of a populous plain. Numerous towns and villages crowded the open country and climbed the lower spurs of the mountains, while cities of importance marked the course of the rapid river. Traveling through this beautiful region, missionaries had often been impressed with its importance as a center for evangelistic work, but hitherto it was unreached by the Gospel.
Left so long in darkness by the Christian Church, the people sought as best they might to satisfy the hunger of the soul. They were ignorant, but far from indifferent as to spiritual things. Some fifty years before, a reformer had arisen in the north-east of the province, a thoughtful, earnest man, who gave his life to recalling his fellow countrymen to the best they knew, with a zeal and devotion that produced remarkable results. Careless as to his own comfort, he traveled far and wide, enduring any amount of hardship, living in poverty and loneliness, always ready to give his last cash to any one in greater need, and preaching everywhere the duty of self-denial and faithful service of the gods. With burning enthusiasm, he called on men and women to repent, and turn from their selfishness and evil ways. Cultivate virtue, care for the needs of others, practice benevolence, spend time and money in the relief of suffering, accumulate merit — thus only can one hope to balance the soul’s account in the dread days to come.
Such exhortations appealed to the Chinaman’s strong sense of duty and still stronger fear of death and retribution — the judgment of Heaven that none can escape; the terrors with which a guilty conscience invests the great Unknown.
How little light he had to give; how little help! Yet people flocked to him. They had nothing better. His followers were numerous, and of all ranks and conditions. Confucianists, Buddhists, and Taoists, men and women alike, they banded themselves together into well-organized societies, and did much to revive the worship of idols and the regular performance of religious rites. Even to their eyes Buddhism and Taoism were terribly corrupt in Shansi.
Specially on the Hung-tung plain and in the surrounding district this influence was felt. The whole region became a stronghold of these idolatrous societies. The leader of the movement passed away.
He died shortly before the first Protestant missionaries came to Shansi. But his followers carried on the work. The more zealous of them became vegetarians and even celibates, giving themselves to the practice of severe austerities. Some took to reciting their daily chants and prayers, kneeling upon the points of sharp iron nails driven through a board for the purpose, while slowly a required length of incense burned away. Others, though not torturing themselves or giving up the relationships of home life, endured much hardship in pilgrimages to distant shrines, and spent money freely in doing “good deeds,” such as providing coffins for the poor, mending roads, supporting the priests and temples, and liberating birds, fish, and animals that were to be used for food.
Well known as a leader among these little bands was a bright, enthusiastic man named Fan, who lived in a village a few miles east of Hung-tung. Though devoted to the “cultivation of virtue,” as they understood it, he was weary and dissatisfied in heart, longing for something more, something better, he knew not what.
A friend of his from the city accosted him one day with strange information. Foreigners had appeared in the neighborhood selling religious books, and talking about a God they called the true and living God and some plan by which sins could be forgiven. The friend was not much interested, but he thought Fan might like to hear of it; and he handed him a tract entitled The Three Needs.
It did not take Fan long to make up his mind.
This new religion was at any rate worth looking into. The foreigners had left Hung-tung, but were living, he heard, in the next important city to the south, only a day’s journey away. He would go down and see them, and find out for himself all about the teachings that interested him so strangely.
But first of all he must prepare a gift. From his own experience he understood the inwardness of these things. It would never do to go down empty-handed. This caused a little delay, for the sum he felt it necessary to take was considerable. Then there was the opposition of his family and friends to overcome, and the work of the farm to provide for. But finally Fan felt himself free, and bidding goodbye to wife and children, he set out for the city of Ping-yang.
The foreigners’ house was easily discovered, and Fan was warmly welcomed by Song and others, who led the way to the guest hall and were soon interested in his story. That day, as it happened, the missionaries were specially busy, and Fan had time to learn a good deal from these new friends, natives of the province like himself, before the foreigners appeared. They answered many of his questions, spoken and unspoken, and seemed to understand so well just what he felt. They told him of not a few in and around the city who had accepted the new faith, and specially of one scholarly Confucianist, named Hsi, already quite a leader among the Christians. This surprised Fan, who was not prepared to find literary men of their number, and made him eager to hear more.
Greater still was his interest when the. missionaries came in. He had previously learned that they dressed and spoke as Chinamen, but was astonished to find them so completely like himself in things external. They were kind and courteous, and seemed to appreciate his position as a religious leader. They spoke freely of eternal life, the danger of the unsaved, and the joy of sins forgiven. But much that they said was mysterious to their unaccustomed listener, and the missionaries had to leave before they could make everything plain.
With a feeling of disappointment Fan returned their cordial salutations, and though pressed by Song and others to stay the evening and hear more, said that he must excuse himself, but might return another day.
This was too much for warm hearted Chang, the soldier.
“Oh, do not think of leaving,” he exclaimed. “You have hardly begun to understand this wonderful teaching. Come with me to the Western Chang village. It is only a few miles across the plain, and Hsi will be so glad to see you.”
To this unexpected suggestion Fan consented, and the two set out toward the mountains. As they went, Fan listened with growing satisfaction to all Chang told him of the man they were about to meet. Here, at any rate, he would be on familiar ground. Was not Hsi a Confucian scholar, and like himself a preacher of benevolence? They would soon feel as brothers. And happily Fan was well provided with the best talisman for winning an entrance into the secret mysteries of any sect.
Seated in Hsi’s guest hall, he felt quite at home.
True, there were no mottoes or pictures such as he was accustomed to, in honor of the gods; no idols or incense burners, and no ancestral tablets. In place of these were scrolls with inscriptions that he could not understand, probably quotations from their Christian classics. But this was all part of the simplicity of their religious notions, and with suspended judgment he awaited the appearance of his host.
Acquainted by Chang with the circumstances of the visit, Hsi hastened to meet the stranger kindly, and pressed him to stay the night, that they might have time for the discussion of important themes.
This pleased Fan, and was no less than he had expected. For the moment he was at a disadvantage, Hsi having given him no opportunity for presenting the money order he had brought. But evidently he was not the only man there as a learner. Quite a number were coming and going, who seemed to be members of the household. It was not likely that any of these disciples had paid as handsomely as he was prepared to, for instruction. And with a consciousness that he would soon be master of the situation, Fan bided his time.
At length, laying aside other duties, Hsi invited his guest into a quiet room, and Fan, with polite regrets as to the unworthiness of his offering, produced the fee of ten thousand cash. Grasping at once the situation, Hsi expostulated: “What! do you regard the grace of God as something to be purchased with money? Sir, you must immediately repent, that your sins may be forgiven and your heart renewed, through faith alone in the Saviour’s merit.”
Greatly surprised and perplexed, Fan withdrew the money, and begged his new friend to explain how and on what footing he might enter the Christian religion. This could not be done in a moment, and Hsi detained him as his guest for several days.
Long and earnest were their conversations. Fan was an eager listener, and grasped the truth with clearness. Feeling at length that there was no need of further instruction, Hsi rose, and coming to where Fan was seated, laid his hands upon his head, praying for him in silence.
“Then,” as Hsi recalled long after, “Fan was moved to the heart. He sobbed aloud, though at the same time rejoicing and praising God. All who saw it were alarmed. But I reassured them, saying, there is no need for fear; it is the power of the Spirit who has come upon him.”
And so indeed it proved.
On the following morning, as soon as he awoke, Fan was again filled with wonderful joy, and declared himself a believer.
“I see it all now,” he exclaimed. “Idols indeed are false and useless. Our Heavenly Father is the true and living God, and Jesus the only Saviour:”
Hsi persuaded him to stay a little longer, that he might learn more about prayer and Christian living, and then let him go his way, eager to carry the glad tidings home. Full of thankfulness, Fan returned to the city, and spent a day or two with the missionaries, who supplied him with a New Testament and urged him to come again at the earliest opportunity. This he gladly promised to do, hoping that he might bring some of his followers with him. At first there would be misunderstanding, no doubt, and perhaps suspicion, but he felt so sure that they would appreciate the glad tidings before long. Alas, he little dreamed how bitter was the opposition that awaited him, and from how sad a cause.
Toward evening he approached Fan-ts’uen, and sighted the familiar homestead where he had left wife and children only a few days before. But no little ones ran out to meet him, no kindly welcome was spoken as he passed down the village street. Something evidently was wrong. There was trouble in the air. He heard sounds of wailing as for the dead. This seemed to grow louder as he neared his own dwelling. Could it have anything to do with him and his?
Dazed by the dreadful tidings, for a time he could hardly take it in. His son, his own bright bonnie little son, killed during his absence! Torn to pieces by a ferocious wolf. It seemed too terrible to be true. And then he had to suffer all the reproaches of wife and relatives, who poured upon him the bitterness of their grief and indignation.
Of course it was his fault, his sin. The gods were incensed, and no wonder. Had not all gone well with them up to the time of this renegade errand? Was not the religion of his fathers good enough for him? Alas, that an innocent child must suffer for his folly, and a poor mother be heartbroken I for himself, it was richly deserved.
Had they not told him there would be trouble, from the first?
It did all seem inexplicable, and an older Christian than Fan might well have been staggered. But in that hour of anguish he was not left alone.
“I greatly obtained God’s grace,” was his testimony, “and the Holy Spirit, filling my heart, caused me to know my Heavenly Father better, and to trust Him more.”
But the neighbors could not understand such calmness, and only thought his delusion the more terrible. They insisted that he must at once renounce these dangerous heresies, and bring offerings to appease the idols.
“Calamity will overtake us all,” they cried. “Hitherto you alone have suffered. But drought will come, and famine. The gods will be revenged upon the whole community, and then do not expect to get off easily. We shall certainly destroy your house and all that you possess.”
“See,” said the Christian quietly; “the God I worship now is the living God, who made heaven and earth. He can prevent the drought from coming. He is stronger than our idols. I do not fear them any longer, and will pray to Him who is above all evil spirits to protect the village from harm.”
Something about his confidence seemed to impress them, and they were in the habit of looking to him as a leader in religious matters. At any rate they left off threatening, and settled down to wait and see. “But remember,” was the frequent warning, “if trouble comes, you will be the first to pay the penalty.”
As the summer days wore on, all eyes turned anxiously to the mountain stream. Fan by this time had taken down his idols, and was openly preaching Christ. And his wife had found a measure of comfort in her sorrow. Whether it was that his changed life appealed to her, or that she herself was coming to know the Saviour’s love, the severity of her opposition ceased, and she even consented to a visit from her husband’s teacher and friend.
Full of sympathy for the family, Hsi came over and spent some days in the village. Neighbors were interested and curious. Impressed by his evident culture, they thronged to hear him discourse upon the new doctrine, and even the most unwilling had to acknowledge his sincerity and power. Fan was jubilant, and the more so because all fear of drought was forgotten. The river was unusually full of water, and his confidence in prayer increased day by day. Among his former co-religionists, not a few began to show deep interest in the Gospel, and at the close of Hsi’s visit, his wife and some members of the family declared themselves Christians.
Then it was the blow fell: a sorrow so overwhelming that it seemed as if it must uproot their faith. How often such mysterious assaults are experienced by converts emerging from heathenism in lands “where Satan’s seat is.” The great enemy does not readily relinquish his hold. But, thank God, there is a place of refuge: “He that was begotten of God keepeth him, and the evil one toucheth him not.”
Fan was away from home. He had gone down a second time to visit the missionaries in P’ing-yang. His two remaining children were playing in the village, without a thought of danger, when suddenly a hungry wolf appeared as before, and carried off the boy, a little fellow of only five years old, killing and devouring him within sight of his father’s door. The villagers were horror stricken. His second son to meet a death so terrible! The drought truly had been averted, but the offender was again singled out as a mark for the vengeance of the gods.
Heartbroken, the parents wept together, — both their boys taken from them, within six months of each other, by a tragedy so mysterious. To be without a son in China is the worst of all calamities, and added to this were the cruel reproaches of neighbors and friends. But they were not left alone in their sorrow. The cry of their hearts, “Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief,” brought divine comfort to their aid.
Fan especially was lifted above the trial. “Let the devil harass if he will: I know that Jesus saves,” became his motto.
With intense fervor he now threw himself into the work of God. The enemy of souls had smitten him sore; he would in return devote every energy to snatching others from his dominion. Such earnestness, under the circumstances, was doubly impressive. He established regular Sunday services in the village, which were well attended; and the missionary came over frequently from the city to strengthen his hands.
But as the work developed and his neighbors became more interested, Fan was perplexed by a new and serious difficulty. He found that the inquirers, even the most promising, were in too many cases confirmed opium smokers. There was not a man among them who would attempt to defend the habit. All alike were convinced that it was harmful and degrading. It never even occurred to them that they could be Christians and continue smoking opium. But they knew no way to be delivered. And the sad conclusion seemed that there could be no hope for them; they could never be reckoned among the followers of Jesus.
But this Fan would not believe. Full well he knew the difficulty. But there must be some way by which even opium smokers could be saved. Had not the Son of God come on purpose “to seek and to save that which was lost?”
The obstacles were great and many. He could not take all these inquirers to Hsi’s home or to the missionaries in the city. They had no accommodation for them. He was not himself a doctor, and would be unable to proceed with their cure, even if he had the needed medicines. And yet how could he go to these men, knowing there were medicines that would help them, and tell them they must face the awful struggle in faith alone? Most of them would give it up on the spot. No, he felt that in some way he must strengthen them to conquer. God had given him this work to do. But, — how?
At length, as he prayed, the thought dawned upon him that if the patients could not go to the doctor perhaps the doctor might come to them. Mr. Drake had medicines, and knew how to use them.
He had also a kind heart. His own home, a cave dwelling, was large enough to take in a dozen or twenty people at a time. He would himself house and care for both doctor and patients, as long as might be necessary, and give everyone who wished it a chance to be free.
This novel proposal Mr. Drake received with favor. He was deeply interested in Fan and his village, and consented to go over for a month, and complete the cure of all who would put themselves under his care. This was a good beginning.
At first, however, only two men were courageous enough to go in for the treatment. The rest crowded the guest hall and courtyard, lingering about from morning till night to watch the progress of events. The house was a simple structure, consisting of three long, tunnel like rooms, side by side, in imitation of the cave dwellings so common in the mountains; the front wall, built of mud bricks, having a window in each of the side rooms for ventilation, and in the central room a door. The three apartments opened into each other; the guest hall being in the middle, the sleeping rooms to right and left. One of these was devoted to the missionary and his patients, but could not afford much privacy, as it was open to observation from without and within.
Fan was in his element, watching the medical treatment, preparing food and tea for his visitors, and preaching all day long to crowds in the courtyard and guest hall. As the cure proceeded, the interest of onlookers became intense. They did so want to go in for it too; but could the sufferings really be endured?
At length one of the two patients, an earnest inquirer, was in agony of mind and body so great that he could bear it no longer. It was midnight; but he roused Fan, imploring him to cry to God for his relief. In a moment Fan was kneeling beside him, confident that prayer would bring the succor medicine alone could not afford. All had been done that could be done, and now they cast themselves upon the power and pity of the Saviour they believed to be so near. Again the touch of His hand brought healing. The sufferer was relieved, and could hardly wait till morning to tell how quickly his distress had been removed, and how all his fears were gone.
“Certainly the medicines are good,” thought anxious observers; “and apparently prayer also helps not a little.”
The result was that one and another applied for treatment, until Mr. Drake and his enthusiastic lieutenant had nineteen men on their hands for the remainder of the month.
To distract their thoughts and use the opportunity, the missionary taught them hymns and passages from Scripture, and conducted morning and evening services, with plenty of singing, which largely augmented the congregations. Between times, the verses were committed to memory in correct Chinese fashion; every man repeating his lessons by the hour together in loud, sing song tones, accompanied by a swaying motion of the body. The babel may be better imagined than described, but the result was satisfactory to all concerned.
Slowly the days wore on, until at length the undertaking was crowned with success. All the patients were cured, and most of them went home renewed in soul as well as body. Mr. Drake returned to the city, weary but rejoicing; and Fan was left full of thankfulness, with a growing work upon his hands.
For, the movement thus begun, it was impossible to discontinue. Opium smokers all-round the neighborhood heard the story, and applied to Fan for help. Mr. Drake sent to the coast for medicines, and the Refuge was kept going throughout the year. A strong spiritual influence was encouraged by frequent visits from Hsi of the Western Chang village, who, making little of the journey across the plain, would come at any time to the assistance of his friend. By degrees the missionaries in the city were less able to give personal supervision, and Fan came to count increasingly upon Hsi, who took up the burden with him, entering into every detail with keenest interest. He would talk and pray for hours with patients and inquirers, conduct services, entertain visitors, comfort the suffering, and be ready with wise counsel in cases of difficulty. Yet neither he nor Fan had any idea to what end all this was tending.
At length, early in 1883, the emergency came that opened their eyes. The Refuge had been at work all through the previous year, and scores of men had been successfully dealt with. A number of patients were in the midst of their course of treatment, and more medicine was required. Fan sent to the city, expecting to obtain it as usual, but found to his consternation that the supply was exhausted and the missionaries were away on a long journey.
Just at this juncture Hsi was impressed with a desire to go over to the Refuge, and, knowing nothing of the circumstances, was surprised at the eagerness of his welcome.
“Oh, elder brother,” Fan exclaimed, “surely the Lord has sent you to deliver us. We are like men climbing painfully out of a miry pit. And now we can go neither up nor down. Quickly, I pray you, think of some plan to save us.”
It was indeed a difficult situation, and Hsi knew as little as Fan how to proceed. But he was sure of one thing.
“The work is of God,” he replied. “Do not fear. Give the men what medicine you have left. I will go home and see what can be done.”
It was a long twenty miles that day, and most of the time was spent in prayer. For Hsi, too, it was a life crisis, though at the moment he did not know it. These men must be helped, and helped at once — that was the burden. And God surely would give him light, for there seemed no one else to help them.
Already, in his suspense, the thought had come that possibly the Lord would use his knowledge of native drugs to enable him to compound a medicine that might take the place of the supply that had failed. It seemed a bold idea, but the more he considered it the more he felt encouraged. Thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, and by the time he reached home he was ready to make the attempt.
“With prayer and fasting,” he writes, “I waited upon the Lord, and besought Him to point out to me the proper ingredients, and to strengthen and help me, that I might prepare the pills quickly and carry them to the Refuge, that those who were breaking off opium might partake thereof and be at peace.”
And then, very simply, it all came to him just how those pills were to be made. The drugs were at hand in his store, and, still fasting, he took the prescription, compounded the medicine, and hastened back to the Refuge.
Then he and Fan together, assured that this remedy was of God, administered it to the patients. It proved an entire success, and with grateful hearts they gave Him all the praise.
The pills were just what was needed. Inexpensive and easily made, they could be produced in large quantities and at short notice. This entirely changed the aspect of opium refuge work. No longer dependent upon foreign supplies, why should not such effort be systematically developed and made self-supporting 1 And to Hsi’s mind it raised the further question: “Have we not here light upon the problem we have been pondering so long — How best to bring people everywhere under the influence of the Gospel, and provide employment for Christian men needing some means of subsistence?”
It all unfolded and developed in the most natural way. The key fitted the lock, opened the door, and gave access to a wide beyond of opportunity and promise.