reigns on high; but still he lives in all his members. “Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it
unto me.” As thou hast, therefore, opportunity, do good unto all men,
especially unto them who are of the household of faith. As a true
follower of Christ, seek not thine own profit, but the profit of many,
that they may be saved. Since Christ has suffered, that whosoever
believeth on him should not perish, but have eternal life, extend thy
good wishes to earth’s remotest bounds; and wherever a human being
exists, let thy prayers and thine efforts combine to bring down eternal
blessings on his beloved soul. But let the members of the household of
faith, whatever be their language, country, or religious denomination,
share in thy warmest love. Regard each one as a part of thine own dear
Saviour; and be as happy to wash his feet as if they were the feet of
thy Lord himself. Remember that, notwithstanding present imperfections,
ye are hastening to be united to one another, and to God, in a manner
most ineffable, even as God is in Christ, and Christ in God; that the
bosom of infinite love is even now opening to receive you all, and that
ye will all bathe together, for endless ages, in “that sea of life and
love unknown, without a bottom or a shore.”
By practising self-denial, thou weakenest the debasing principle of
inordinate self-love; and by doing good, thou cherishest and
strengthenest the heavenly principle of holy benevolence. Let these
exercises, then, quickened and sanctified by secret prayer, be the
regular work of each day of thy life.
Thus I present thee, my brother, with the threefold cord—the three grand
means of growing in grace—of gaining the victory over the world, the
flesh, and the devil—of drawing the soul from earth to heaven. Means, I
say; for I speak not now of faith, the living operative principle
within—the hand, with which thou must lay hold of the threefold cord.
Wilt thou accept my present? Art thou inclined to lay hold? Cherish the
Heaven-born inclination. It is worth more to thee than all the treasures
of the earth. Go into thy place of prayer, stretch out the hand of
faith, and implore the Holy Spirit, who is even now hovering over thee,
to strengthen thee to lay hold for life. Dost thou hesitate? O my
brother, do not, I beseech thee. O, do not grieve the Holy Spirit.
Disappoint not the fond hopes of thy longing Saviour. Renounce the
world, renounce thyself, and flee into his loving arms, which are open
to receive and embrace thee. Angels will rejoice over thy second
conversion, as they did over thy first. Thou wilt soon find such
sweetness as thou hast never yet conceived. Thou wilt begin to live in a
new world, to breathe a new atmosphere, and to behold the light of
heaven shining around thee; and thou wilt begin to love the Lord thy God
in a new manner, when he is “pacified towards thee, for all that thou
hast done.”
_Postscript._
In taking leave of thee, my brother, the thought occurs, that,
notwithstanding thy prevailing hope, thou mayst yet have fearful doubts
about thy spiritual state, and mayst think that thou hast not yet the
hand of faith, with which to lay hold of what I send thee. And I fancy I
hear thee cry, What shall I do? Art thou _sensible_ of thy maimed state?
Then there is some hope. _Do what thou canst_: stretch out what thou
hast, however maimed or withered, and try to lay hold. Try to pray in
faith, to practice self-denial, and to do good. And be assured, my
brother, that thou wilt quickly find the hand of faith where thou
thoughtest it was not. There is one near thee whom yet thou knowest
not—He who gave sight to blind Bartimeus, and said to the deaf man,
Ephphatha, Be opened; He who heareth the young ravens when they cry, and
much more, the cry of man, the dearest of all his creatures; He, who is
ever moved with the yearning feelings of a tender parent, when he sees,
at a distance, his poor prodigal son returning, famished and forlorn,
from the far country.
MIZAR, _February, 1829_.
-----
Footnote 75:
See _Rules and Instructions for a Holy Life_, a piece which, though
not elaborately finished, contains the very marrow of true religion.
Study also Law’s _Treatise upon Christian Perfection_, and Kempis’s
_Imitation of Christ_.
Footnote 76:
To guard against extremes, take the two following short rules: 1st.
Avoid such privations and severities as do really injure thy bodily
health. 2d. Avoid affected singularities in dress and deportment,
which only cherish pride; and while thou aimest to be poor and
mortified in all outward things, still retain the garb and costume of
thy country, and respect those national usages which are common to the
high and the low, the rich and the poor, unless there be some special
reason for a change.
----------
D.
ADVICE TO MISSIONARY CANDIDATES.
_To the Foreign Missionary Association of the Hamilton Literary and
Theological Institution, N. Y._
MAULMAIN, _June_ 25, 1832.
DEAR BRETHREN: Yours of November last, from the pen of your
Corresponding Secretary, Mr. William Dean, is before me. It is one of
the few letters that I feel called upon to answer, for you ask my
advice on several important points. There is, also, in the sentiments
you express, something so congenial to my own, that I feel my heart
knit to the members of your association, and instead of commonplace
reply, am desirous of setting down a few items which may be profitable
to you in your future course. Brief items they must be, for want of
time forbids my expatiating.
In commencing my remarks, I take you as you are. You are contemplating
a missionary life.
_First_, then, let it be a missionary _life_; that is, come out for
life, and not for a limited term. Do not fancy that you have a true
missionary spirit, while you are intending all along to leave the
heathen soon after acquiring their language. Leave them! for what? To
spend the rest of your days in enjoying the ease and plenty of your
native land?
_Secondly._ In choosing a companion for life, have particular regard
to a good constitution, and not wantonly, or without good cause, bring
a burden on yourselves and the mission.
_Thirdly._ Be not ravenous to do good on board ship. Missionaries have
frequently done more hurt than good, by injudicious zeal, during their
passage out.
_Fourthly._ Take care that the attention you receive at home, the
unfavorable circumstances in which you will be placed on board ship,
and the unmissionary examples you may possibly meet with at some
missionary stations, do not transform you from living missionaries to
mere skeletons before you reach the place of your destination. It may
be profitable to bear in mind, that a large proportion of those who
come out on a mission to the East die within five years after leaving
their native land. Walk softly, therefore; death is narrowly watching
your steps.
_Fifthly._ Beware of the reaction which will take place soon after
reaching your field of labor. There you will perhaps find native
Christians, of whose merits or demerits you can not judge correctly
without some familiar acquaintance with their language. Some
appearances will combine to disappoint and disgust you. You will meet
with disappointments and discouragements, of which it is impossible to
form a correct idea from written accounts, and which will lead you, at
first, almost to regret that you have embarked in the cause. You will
see men and women whom you have been accustomed to view through a
telescope some thousands of miles long. Such an instrument is apt to
magnify. Beware, therefore, of the reaction you will experience from a
combination of all these causes, lest you become disheartened at
commencing your work, or take up a prejudice against some persons and
places, which will embitter all your future lives.
_Sixthly._ Beware of the greater reaction which will take place after
you have acquired the language, and become fatigued and worn out with
preaching the gospel to a disobedient and gainsaying people. You will
sometimes long for a quiet retreat, where you can find a respite from
the tug of toiling at native work—the incessant, intolerable friction
of the missionary grindstone. And Satan will sympathize with you in
this matter; and he will present some chapel of ease, in which to
officiate in your native tongue, some government situation, some
professorship or editorship, some literary or scientific pursuit, some
supernumerary translation, or, at least, some system of schools;
anything, in a word, that will help you, without much surrender of
character, to slip out of real missionary work. Such a temptation will
form the crisis of your disease. If your spiritual constitution can
sustain it, you recover; if not, you die.
_Seventhly._ Beware of pride; not the pride of proud men, but the
pride of humble men—that secret pride which is apt to grow out of the
consciousness that we are esteemed by the great and good. This pride
sometimes eats out the vitals of religion before its existence is
suspected. In order to check its operations, it may be well to
remember how we appear in the sight of God, and how we should appear
in the sight of our fellow-men, _if all were known_. Endeavor to let
all be known. Confess your faults freely, and as publicly as
circumstances will require or admit. When you have done something of
which you are ashamed, and by which, perhaps, some person has been
injured (and what man is exempt?), be glad not only to make
reparation, but improve the opportunity for subduing your pride.
_Eighthly._ Never lay up money for yourselves or your families. Trust
in God from day to day, and verily you shall be fed.
_Ninthly._ Beware of that indolence which leads to a neglect of bodily
exercise. The poor health and premature death of most Europeans in the
East must be eminently ascribed to the most wanton neglect of bodily
exercise.
_Tenthly._ Beware of genteel living. Maintain as little intercourse as
possible with fashionable European society. The mode of living adopted
by many missionaries in the East is quite inconsistent with that
familiar intercourse with the natives which is essential to a
missionary.
There are many points of self-denial that I should like to touch upon;
but a consciousness of my own deficiency constrains me to be silent. I
have also left untouched several topics of vital importance, it having
been my aim to select such only as appear to me to have been not much
noticed or enforced. I hope you will excuse the monitorial style that
I have accidentally adopted. I assure you, I mean no harm.
In regard to your inquiries concerning studies, qualifications, etc.,
nothing occurs that I think would be particularly useful, except the
simple remark, that I fear too much stress begins to be laid on what
is termed a thorough classical education.
Praying that you may be guided in all your deliberations, and that I
may yet have the pleasure of welcoming some of you to these heathen
shores, I remain
Your affectionate brother,
A. JUDSON.
E.
THE KATHAYAN SLAVE.
AT the commencement of the English and Burmese war of 1824, all the
Christians (called “hat-wearers,” in contradistinction from the turbaned
heads of the Orientals) residing at Ava were thrown unceremoniously into
the death-prison. Among them were both Protestant and Roman Catholic
missionaries; some few reputable European traders; and criminals
shadowed from the laws of Christendom “under the sole of the golden
foot.” These, Americans, English, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, and
Armenian, were all huddled together in one prison, with villains of
every grade—the thief, the assassin, the bandit, or all three in one;
constituting, in connection with countless other crimes, a blacker
character than the inhabitant of a civilized land can picture. Sometimes
stript of their clothing, sometimes nearly starved, loaded with heavy
irons, thrust into a hot, filthy, noisome apartment, with criminals for
companions and criminals for guards, compelled to see the daily torture,
to hear the shriek of anguish from writhing victims, with death, death
in some terribly detestable form, always before them, a severer state of
suffering can scarcely be imagined.
The Burmese had never been known to spare the lives of their
war-captives; and though the little band of foreigners could scarcely be
called prisoners of war, yet this well-known custom, together with their
having been thrust into the death-prison, from which there was no
escape, except by a pardon from the king, cut off nearly every
reasonable hope of rescue. But (quite a new thing in the annals of
Burmese history), although some died from the intensity of their
sufferings, no foreigner was wantonly put to death. Of those who were
claimed by the English at the close of the war, some one or two are yet
living, with anklets and bracelets which they will carry to the grave
with them, wrought in their flesh by the heavy iron. It may well be
imagined that these men might unfold to us scenes of horror, incidents
daily occurring under their own shuddering gaze, in comparison with
which the hair-elevating legends of Ann Radcliff would become simply
fairy tales.
The death-prison at Ava was at that time a single large room, built of
rough boards, without either window or door, and with but a thinly
thatched roof to protect the wretched inmates from the blaze of a
tropical sun. It was entered by slipping aside a single board, which
constituted a sort of sliding-door. Around the prison, inside the yard,
were ranged the huts of the under-jailers, or _Children of the Prison_,
and outside of the yard, close at hand, that of the head-jailer. These
jailers must necessarily be condemned criminals, with a ring, the sign
of outlawry, traced in the skin of the cheek, and the name of their
crime engraved in the same manner upon the breast. The head-jailer was a
tall, bony man, with sinews of iron; wearing, when speaking, a malicious
smirk, and given at times to a most revolting kind of jocoseness. When
silent and quiet, he had a jaded, care-worn look; but it was at the
torture that he was in his proper element. Then his face lighted
up—became glad, furious, demoniac. His small black eyes glittered like
those of a serpent; his thin lips rolled back, displaying his toothless
gums in front, with a long, protruding tusk on either side, stained
black as ebony; his hollow, ringed cheeks seemed to contract more and
more, and his breast heaved with convulsive delight beneath the fearful
word—MAN-KILLER. The prisoners called him _father_, when he was present
to enforce this expression of affectionate familiarity; but among
themselves he was irreverently christened the _tiger-cat_.
One of the most active of the Children of the Prison was a short,
broad-faced man, labelled THIEF, who, as well as the Tiger, had a
peculiar talent in the way of torturing; and so fond was he of the use
of the whip, that he often missed his count, and zealously exceeded the
number of lashes ordered by the city governor. The wife of this man was
a most odious creature; filthy, bold, impudent, cruel, and, like her
husband, delighting in torture. Her face was not only deeply pitted with
small-pox, but so deformed with leprosy, that the white cartilage of the
nose was laid entirely bare; from her large mouth shone rows of
irregular teeth, black as ink; her hair, which was left entirely to the
care of nature, was matted in large black masses about her head; and her
manner, under all this hideous ugliness, was insolent and vicious. They
had two children—little vipers, well loaded with venom; and by their
vexatious mode of annoyance trying the tempers of the prisoners more
than was in the power of the mature torturers.
As will readily be perceived, the security of this prison was not in the
strength of the structure, but in the heavy manacles, and the living
wall. The lives of the jailers depended entirely on their fidelity; and
fidelity involved strict obedience to orders, however ferocious. As for
themselves, they could not escape; they had nowhere to go; certain death
awaited them everywhere, for they bore on cheek and breast the
ineffaceable proof of their outlawry. Their only safety was at their
post; and there was no safety there in humanity, even if it were
possible for such degraded creatures to have a spark of humanity left.
So inclination united with interest to make them what they really
were—demons.
The arrival of a new prisoner was an incident calculated to excite but
little interest in the hat-wearers, provided he came in turban and
waistcloth. But one morning there was brought in a young man, speaking
the Burmese brokenly, and with the soft accent of the north, who at once
attracted universal attention. He was tall and erect, with a mild,
handsome face, bearing the impress of inexpressible suffering; a
complexion slightly tinted with the rich brown of the east; a fine,
manly carriage, and a manner which, even there, was both graceful and
dignified.
“Who is he?” was the interpretation of the inquiring glances exchanged
among those who had no liberty to speak; and then eye asked of eye,
“What can he have done?—he so gentle, so mild, so manly, that even these
wretches, who scarcely know the name of pity and respect, seem to feel
both for him?” There was, in truth, something in the countenance of the
new prisoner which, without asking for sympathy, involuntarily enforced
it. It was not amiability, though his dark, soft, beautiful eye was full
of a noble sweetness; it was not resignation; it was not apathy; it was
hopelessness, deep, utter, immovable, suffering hopelessness. Very
young, and apparently not ambitious or revengeful, what crime could this
interesting stranger have committed to draw down “the golden foot” with
such crushing weight upon his devoted head? He seemed utterly
friendless, and without even the means of obtaining food; for, as the
day advanced, no one came to see him; and the officer who brought him
had left no directions. He did not, however, suffer from this neglect,
for Madam Thief (most wonderful to relate!) actually shared so deeply in
the universal sympathy as to bring him a small quantity of boiled rice
and water.
Toward evening the Woon-bai, a governor, or rather Mayor of the city,
entered the prison, his bold, lion-like face as open and unconcerned as
ever, but with something of unusual bustling in his manner.
“Where is he?” he cried, sternly; “where is he? this son of Kathay? this
dog, villain, traitor! where is he? Aha! only one pair of irons? Put on
five! do you hear? five!”
The Woon-bai remained till his orders were executed, and the poor
Kathayan was loaded with five pairs of fetters; and then he went out,
frowning on one and smiling on another; while the Children of the Prison
watched his countenance and manner, as significant of what was expected
of them. The prisoners looked at each other, and shook their heads in
commiseration.
The next day the feet of the young Kathayan, in obedience to some new
order, were placed in the stocks, which raised them about eighteen
inches from the ground; and the five pairs of fetters were all disposed
on the outer side of the plank, so that their entire weight fell upon
the ankles. The position was so painful that each prisoner, some from
memory, some from sympathetic apprehension, shared in the pain when he
looked at the sufferer.
During this day, one of the missionaries, who had been honored with an
invitation, which it was never prudent to refuse, to the hut of the
Thief, learned something of the history of the young man, and his crime.
His home, it was told him, was among the rich hills of Kathay, as they
range far northward, where the tropic sun loses the intense fierceness
of his blaze, and makes the atmosphere soft and luxurious, as though it
were mellowing beneath the same amber sky which ripens the fruits, and
gives their glow to the flowers. What had been his rank in his own land,
the jailer’s wife did not know. Perhaps he had been a prince, chief of
the brave band conquered by the superior force of the Burmans; or a
hunter among the spicy groves and deep-wooded jungles, lithe as the
tiger which he pursued from lair to lair, and free as the flame-winged
bird of the sun that circled above him; or perhaps his destiny had been
a humbler one, and he had but followed his goats as they bounded
fearlessly from ledge to ledge, and plucked for food the herbs upon his
native hills. He had been brought away by a marauding party, and
presented as a slave to the brother of the queen. This _Men-thah-gyee_,
the Great Prince, as he was called, by way of pre-eminence, had risen,
through the influence of his sister, from the humble condition of a
fishmonger, to be the Richelieu of the nation. Unpopular from his mean
origin, and still more unpopular from the acts of brutality to which the
intoxication of power had given rise, the sympathy excited by the poor
Kathayan in the breasts of these wretches may easily be accounted for.
It was not pity or mercy, but hatred. Anywhere else, the sufferer’s sad,
handsome face, and mild, uncomplaining manner, would have enlisted
sympathy; but here, they would scarcely have seen the sadness, or
beauty, or mildness, except through the medium of a passion congenial to
their own natures.
Among the other slaves of Men-thah-gyee, was a young Kathay girl of
singular beauty. She was, so said Madam the Thief, a bundle of roses,
set round with the fragrant blossoms of the champac tree; her breath was
like that of the breezes when they come up from their dalliance with the
spicy daughters of the islands of the south; her voice had caught its
rich cadence from the musical gush of the silver fountain, which wakes
among the green of her native hills; her hair had been braided from the
glossy raven plumage of the royal edolius; her eyes were twin stars
looking out from cool springs, all fringed with the long, tremulous
reeds of the jungle; and her step was as the free, graceful bound of the
wild antelope. On the subject of her grace, her beauty, and her wondrous
daring, the jailer’s wife could not be sufficiently eloquent. And so
this poor, proud, simple-souled maiden, this diamond from the rich hills
of Kathay, destined to glitter for an hour or two on a prince’s bosom,
unsubdued even in her desolation, had dared to bestow her affections
with the uncalculating lavishness of conscious heart-freedom. And the
poor wretch, lying upon his back in the death-prison, his feet fast in
the stocks and swelling and purpling beneath the heavy irons, had
participated in her crime; had lured her on, by tender glances and by
loving words, inexpressibly sweet in their mutual bondage, to
irretrievable destruction. What fears, what hopes winged by fears, what
tremulous joys, still hedged in by that same crowd of fears, what
despondency, what revulsions of impotent anger and daring, what weeping,
what despair must have been theirs! Their tremblings and rejoicings,
their mad projects, growing each day wilder and more dangerous—since
madness alone could have given rise to anything like hope—are things
left to imagination; for there was none to relate the heart-history of
the two slaves of Men-thah-gyee. Yet there were some hints of a first
accidental meeting under the shadow of the mango and tamarind trees,
where the sun lighted up, by irregular gushes, the waters of the little
lake in the centre of the garden, and the rustle of leaves seemed
sufficient to drown the accents of their native tongues. So they looked,
spoke, their hearts bounded, paused, trembled with soft
home-memories—they whispered on, and they were lost. Poor slaves!
Then at evening, when the dark-browed maidens of the golden city
gathered, with their earthen vessels, about the well, there, shaded by
the thick clumps of bamboo, with the free sky overhead, the green earth
beneath, and the songs and laughter of the merry girls ringing in their
ears, so like their own home, the home which they had lost forever—oh,
what a rare, sweet, dangerous meeting-place for those who should not,
and yet must be lovers!
Finally came a day fraught with illimitable consequences; the day when
the young slave, not yet admitted to the royal harem, should become more
than ever the property of her master. And now deeper grew their agony,
more uncontrollable their madness, wilder and more daring their hopes,
with every passing moment. Not a man in Ava but would have told them
that escape was impossible; and yet, goaded on by love and despair, they
attempted the impossibility. They had countrymen in the city, and, under
cover of night, they fled to them. Immediately the minister sent out his
myrmidons—they were tracked, captured, and brought back to the palace.
“And what became of the poor girl?” inquired the missionary, with much
interest.
The woman shuddered, and beneath her scars and the swarthiness of her
skin, she became deadly pale.
“There is a cellar, Tsayah,” at last she whispered, still shuddering, “a
deep cellar, that no one has seen, but horrible cries come from it
sometimes, and two nights ago, for three hours, three long hours—such
shrieks! Amai-ai! what shrieks! And they say that he was there, Tsayah,
and saw and heard it all. That is the reason that his eyes are blinded
and his ears benumbed. A great many go into that cellar, but none ever
come out again—none but the doomed like him. It is—_it is like the West
Prison_,” she added, sinking her voice still lower, and casting an
eager, alarmed look about her. The missionary, too, shuddered, as much
at the mention of this prison as at the recital of the woman; for it
shut within its walls deep mysteries, which even his jailers, accustomed
as they were to torture and death, shrank from babbling of.
The next day a cord was passed around the wrists of the young Kathayan,
his arms jerked up into a position perpendicular with his prostrate
body, and the end of the cord fastened to a beam overhead. Still, though
faint from the lack of food, parched with thirst, and racked with pain,
for his feet were swollen and livid, not a murmur of complaint escaped
his lips. And yet this patient endurance seemed scarcely the result of
fortitude or heroism; an observer would have said that the inner
suffering was so great as to render that of the mere physical frame
unheeded. There was the same expression of hopelessness, the same
unvarying wretchedness, too deep, too real, to think of giving itself
utterance on the face as at his first entrance into the prison; and
except that he now and then fixed on one of the hopeless beings who
regarded him in silent pity, a mournful, half-beseeching, half-vacant
stare, this was all.
That day passed away as others had done; then came another night of
dreams, in which loved ones gathered around the hearth-stone of a dear,
distant home; dreams broken by the clanking of chains, and the groans of
the suffering; and then morning broke. There still hung the poor
Kathayan; his face slightly distorted with the agony he was suffering,
his lips dry and parched, his cheek pallid and sunken, and his eyes wild
and glaring. His breast swelled and heaved, and now and then a sob-like
sigh burst forth involuntarily. When the Tiger entered, the eye of the
young man immediately fastened on him, and a shiver passed through his
frame. The old murderer went his usual rounds with great nonchalance;
gave an order here, a blow there, and cracked a malicious joke with a
third; smiling all the time that dark, sinister smile, which made him so
much more hideous in the midst of his wickedness. At last he approached
the Kathayan, who, with a convulsive movement, half raised himself from
the ground at his touch, and seemed to contract like a shrivelled leaf.
“Right! right, my son!” said the old man, chuckling. “You are expert at
helping yourself, to be sure; but then you need assistance. So—so—so!”
and giving the cord three successive jerks, he succeeded, by means of
his immense strength, in raising the Kathayan so that but the back of
his head, as it fell downward, could touch the floor. There was a quick,
short crackling of joints, and a groan escaped the prisoner. Another
groan followed, and then another—and another—a heaving of the chest, a
convulsive shiver, and for a moment he seemed lost. Human hearts glanced
heavenward. “God grant it! Father of mercies, spare him farther agony!”
It could not be. Gaspingly came the lost breath back again, quiveringly
the soft eyes unclosed; and the young Kathayan captive was fully awake
to his misery.
“I can not die so—I can not—so slow—so slow—so slow!” Hunger gnawed,
thirst burned, fever revelled in his veins; the cord upon his wrists cut
to the bone; corruption had already commenced upon his swollen, livid
feet; the most frightful, torturing pains distorted his body, and wrung
from him groans and murmurings so pitiful, so harrowing, so full of
anguish, that the unwilling listeners could only turn away their heads,
or lift their eyes to each other’s faces in mute horror. Not a word was
exchanged among them—not a lip had power to give it utterance.
“I can not die so! I can not die so! I can not die so!” came the words,
at first moaningly, and then prolonged to a terrible howl. And so passed
another day, and another night, and still the wretch lived on.
In the midst of their filth and smothering heat, the prisoners awoke
from such troubled sleep as they could gain amid these horrors; and
those who could, pressed their feverish lips and foreheads to the
crevices between the boards to court the morning breezes. A lady with a
white brow, and a lip whose delicate vermilion had not ripened beneath
the skies of India, came with food to her husband. By constant
importunity had the beautiful ministering angel gained this holy
privilege. Her coming was like a gleam of sunlight—a sudden unfolding of
the beauties of this bright earth to one born blind. She performed her
usual tender ministry and departed.
Day advanced to its meridian; and once more, but now hesitatingly, and
as though he dreaded his task, the Tiger drew near the young Kathayan.
But the sufferer did not shrink from him as before.
“Quick!” he exclaimed, greedily. “Quick! give me one hand and the
cord—just a moment, a single moment—this hand with the cord in it—and
you shall be rid of me forever!”
The Tiger burst into a hideous laugh, his habitual cruelty returning at
the sound of his victim’s voice.
“Rid of you! not so fast, my son; not so fast. You will hold out a day
or two yet. Let me see!” passing his hand along the emaciated, feverish
body of the sufferer. “Oh, yes; two days at least, perhaps three; and it
may be longer. Patience, my son; you are frightfully strong! Now these
joints—why, any other man’s would have separated long ago; but here they
stay just as firmly—” As he spoke with a calculating sort of
deliberation, the monster gave the cord a sudden jerk, then another, and
a third, raising his victim still farther from the floor, and then
adjusting it about the beam, walked unconcernedly away. For several
minutes the prison rung with the most fearful cries. Shriek followed
shriek, agonized, furious, with scarcely a breath between; bellowings,
howlings, gnashings of the teeth, sharp, piercing screams, yells of
savage defiance; cry upon cry, cry upon cry, with wild superhuman
strength, they came; while the prisoners shrank in awe and terror,
trembling in their chains. But this violence soon exhausted itself, and
the paroxysm passed, giving place to low, sad moans, irresistibly
pitiful. This was a day never to be forgotten by the hundred wretched
creatures congregated in the gloomy death-prison. The sun had never
seemed to move so slowly before. Its setting was gladly welcomed, but
yet the night brought no change. Those piteous moans, those agonized
groanings seemed no nearer an end than ever.
Another day passed—another night—again day dawned and drew near its
close; and yet the poor Kathayan clung to life with frightful tenacity.
One of the missionaries, as a peculiar favor, had been allowed to creep
into an old shed, opposite the door of the prison; and here he was
joined by a companion, just as the day was declining towards evening.
“Oh, will it ever end?” whispered one.
The other only bowed his head between his hands—“Terrible! terrible!”
“There surely can be nothing worse in the West Prison.”
“Can there be anything worse—can there be more finished demons in the
pit?”
Suddenly, while this broken conversation was conducted in a low tone, so
as not to draw upon the speakers the indignation of their jailers, they
were struck by the singular stillness of the prison. The clanking of
chains, the murmur and the groan, the heavy breathing of congregated
living beings, the bustle occasioned by the continuous uneasy movement
of the restless sufferers, the ceaseless tread of the Children of the
Prison, and their bullying voices, all were hushed.
“What is it?” in a lower whisper than ever, and a shaking of the head,
and holding their own chains to prevent their rattle, and looks full of
wonder, was all that passed between the two listeners. Their amazement
was interrupted by a dull, heavy sound, as though a bag of dried bones
had been suddenly crushed down by the weight of some powerful foot.
Silently they stole to a crevice in the boards, opposite the open door.
Not a jailer was to be seen; and the prisoners were motionless and
apparently breathless, with the exception of one powerful man, who was
just drawing the wooden mallet in his hand for another blow on the
temple of the suspended Kathayan. It came down with the same dull,
hollow, crushing sound; the body swayed from the point where it was
suspended by wrist and ankle, till it seemed that every joint must be
dislocated; but the flesh scarcely quivered. The blow was repeated, and
then another, and another; but they were not needed. The poor captive
Kathayan was dead.
The mallet was placed away from sight, and the daring man hobbled back
to his corner, dangling his heavy chain as though it had been a
plaything, and striving with all his might to look unconscious and
unconcerned. An evident feeling of relief stole over the prisoners; the
Children of the Prison came back to their places, one by one, and all
went on as before. It was some time before any one appeared to discover
the death of the Kathayan. The old Tiger declared it was what he had
been expecting, that his living on in this manner was quite out of rule;
but that those hardy fellows from the hills never would give in while
there was a possibility of drawing another breath. Then the poor
skeleton was unchained, dragged by the heels into the prison-yard, and
thrown into a gutter. It did not, apparently, fall properly, for one of
the jailers altered the position of the shoulders by means of his foot;
then clutching the long black hair, jerked the head a little farther on
the side. Thus the discolored temple was hidden; and surely that
emaciated form gave sufficient evidence of a lingering death. Soon
after, a party of government officers visited the prison-yard, touched
the corpse with their feet, without raising it; and, apparently
satisfied, turned away, as though it had been a dead dog that they cared
not to give farther attention.
Is it strange that, if one were there with a human heart within him, not
brutalized by crime, or steeled by passive familiarity with suffering,
he should have dragged his heavy chain to the side of the dead, and
dropped upon his sharpened, distorted features the tear, which there was
none who had loved him to shed? Is it strange that tender fingers should
have closed the staring eyes, and touched gently the cold brow, which
throbbed no longer with pain, and smoothed the frayed hair, and composed
the passive limbs decently, though he knew that the next moment rude
hands would destroy the result of his pious labor? And is it strange
that when all which remained of the poor sufferer had been jostled into
its sackcloth shroud, and crammed down into the dark hole dug for it in
the earth, a prayer should have ascended, even from that terrible
prison? Not a prayer for the dead; he had received his doom. But an
earnest, beseeching, upheaving of the heart for those wretched beings
that, in the face of the pure heavens and the smiling earth, confound,
by the inherent blackness of their natures, philosopher, priest, or
philanthropist, who dares to tickle the ears of the multitude with fair
theories of “Natural religion,” and “The dignity of human nature.”
F.
WAYSIDE PREACHING.
BY MRS. E. C. JUDSON.
THE sunlight fell aslant upon the fragile framework of a Burman zayat;
but though it was some hours past midday, the burning rays were not yet
level enough to look too intrusively beneath the low projecting eaves.
Yet the day was intensely hot, and the wearied occupant of the one
bamboo chair in the centre of the building, looked haggard and
care-worn. All day long had he sat in that position, repeating over and
over again, as he could find listeners, such simple truths as mothers
are accustomed to teach the infant on their knees; and now his head was
aching, and his heart was very heavy. He had met some scoffers, some who
seemed utterly indifferent, but not one sincere inquirer after the
truth.
In the middle of the day, when the sun was hottest, and scarcely a
European throughout all India was astir, he had received the greatest
number of visitors; for the passers-by were glad of a moment’s rest and
shelter from the sun. The mats were still spread invitingly upon the
floor; but though persons of almost every description were continually
passing and repassing, they seemed each intent on his own business, and
the missionary was without a listener. He thought of his neglected
study-table at home; of his patient, fragile wife, toiling through the
numerous cares of the day alone; of the letters his friends were
expecting, and which he had no time to write; of the last periodicals
from his dear native land, lying still unread; and every little while,
between the other thoughts, came real pinings after a delicious little
book of devotion, which he had slid into his pocket in the morning,
promising it his first moment of leisure. Then he was naturally an
active man, of quick, ardent temperament, and with such views of the
worth of time as earnest American men can scarcely fail to gain; and it
went to his heart to lose so many precious moments. If he could only do
something to fill up these tedious intervals! But no; this was a work to
which he must not give a divided mind. He was renewing a half-tested
experiment in wayside preaching, and he would not suffer his attention
to be distracted by anything else. While his face was hidden by his
book, and his mind intent on self-improvement, some poor passer-by might
lose a last, an only opportunity, of hearing the words of life. To be
sure, his own soul seemed very barren, and needed refreshing; and his
body was weary—wearied well-nigh to fainting, more with the dull,
palsying inanity of the day’s fruitless endeavors, than with anything
like labor. Heavily beat down the hot sun, lighting up the amber-like
brown of the thatch as with a burning coal; while thickly in its broad
rays floated a heavy golden cloud of dust and motes, showing in what a
wretched atmosphere the delicate lungs were called to labor. Meantime a
fever-freighted breeze, which had been, all the hot day, sweeping the
effluvia from eastern marshes, stirred the glossy leaves of the orange
tree across the way, and parched the lip, and kindled a crimson spot
upon the wan cheek of the weary missionary.
“God reigns,” he repeated, as though some reminder of the sort were
necessary. “God Almighty reigns; and I have given myself to him, soul
and body, for time and for eternity. His will be done!” Still, how long
the day seemed! How broad the space that blistering sun had yet to
travel, before its waiting, its watching, and its laboring would be
ended! Might he not indulge himself just one moment? His hand went to
his pocket, and the edge of a little book peeped forth a moment, and
then, with a decided push, was thrust back again. No; he would not
trifle with his duty. He would be sternly, rigidly faithful; and the
blessing would surely come in time. Yet it was with an irrepressible
yawn that he took up a little Burman tract prepared by himself, of which
every word was as familiar as his own name, and commenced reading aloud.
The sounds caught the ear of a coarsely-clad water-bearer, and she
lowered the vessel from her head, and seated herself afar off, just
within the shadow of the low eaves. Attracted by the foreign accent of
the reader, few passed without turning the head a few moments to listen;
then, catching at some word which seemed to them offensive, they would
repeat it mockingly and hasten on.
Finally the old water-bearer, grinning in angry derision till her
wrinkled visage became positively hideous, rose, slowly adjusted the
earthen vessel on her head, and passed along, muttering as she went,
“Jesus Christ!—no Nigban!—ha, ha, ha!” The heart of the missionary sunk
within him, and he was on the point of laying down the book. But the
shadow of another passer-by fell upon the path, and he continued a
moment longer. It was a tall, dignified looking man, leading by the hand
a boy, the open mirthfulness of whose bright, button-like eyes was in
perfect keeping with his dancing little feet. The stranger was of a
grave, staid demeanor, with a turban of aristocratic smallness, sandals
turning up at the toe, a silken robe of somewhat subdued colors, and a
snow-white tunic of gentlemanlike length and unusual fineness.
“Papa, papa!” said the boy, with a merry little skip, and twitching at
the hand he was holding, “Look, look, papa! _there_ is Jesus Christ’s
man. _Amai!_ how shockingly white!”
“Jesus Christ’s man” raised his eyes from the book which he could read
just as well without eyes, and bestowed one of his brightest smiles upon
the little stranger, just as the couple were passing beyond the corner
of the zayat, but not too late to catch a bashfully pleased recognition.
The father did not speak nor turn his head, but a ray of sunshine went
down into the missionary’s heart from those happy little eyes; and he
somehow felt that his hour’s reading had not been thrown away. He had
remarked this man before in other parts of the town; and had striven in
various ways to attract his attention, but without success. He was
evidently known, and most probably avoided; but the child, with that
shy, pleased, half-confiding, roguish sort of smile, seemed sent as an
encouraging messenger. The missionary continued his reading with an
increase of earnestness and emphasis. A priest wrapped his yellow robes
about him and sat down upon the steps, as though for a moment’s rest.
Then another stranger came up boldly, and with considerable ostentation,
seated himself on the mat. He proved to be a philosopher, from the
school then recently disbanded at Prome; and he soon drew on a brisk,
animated controversy.
The missionary did not finish his day’s work with the shutting up of the
zayat. At night, in his closet, he remembered both philosopher and
priest; pleaded long and earnestly for the scoffing old water-bearer;
and felt a warm tear stealing to his eye, as he presented the case of
the tall stranger, and the laughing, dancing ray of sunshine at his
side.
Day after day went by, as oppressively hot, as dusty, and bringing as
many feverish winds as ever; but the hours were less wearisome, because
many little buds of hope had been fashioned, which might yet expand into
perfect flowers. But every day the tall stranger carried the same
imperturbable face past the zayat; and every day the child made some
silent advance towards the friendship of the missionary, bending his
half-shaven head, and raising his little nut-colored hand to his
forehead, by way of salutation, and smiling till his round face dimpled
all over like ripples in a sunny pool. One day, as the pair came in
sight, the missionary beckoned with his hand, and the child, with a
single bound, came to his knee.
“Moung-Moung!” exclaimed the father in a tone of surprise blended with
anger. But the child was back again in a moment, with a gay colored
Madras handkerchief wound around his head; and with his bright lips
parted, his eyes sparkling, and dancing with joy, and his face wreathed
with smiles, he seemed the most charming thing in nature. “_Tai
hlah-the!_” (very beautiful) said the child, touching his new turban,
and looking into his father’s clouded face, with the fearlessness of an
indulged favorite.
“_Tai hlah-the!_” repeated the father, involuntarily. He meant the
child.
“You have a very fine boy there, sir,” said the missionary, in a tone
intended to be conciliatory. The stranger turned with a low salaam. For
a moment he seemed to hesitate, as though struggling between his native
politeness and his desire to avoid an acquaintance with the proselyting
foreigner. Then taking the hand of the little boy who was too proud and
happy to notice his father’s confusion, he hastened away.
“I do not think that zayat a very good place to go to, Moung-Moung,”
said the father, gravely, when they were well out of hearing. The boy
answered only by a look of inquiry strangely serious for such a face as
his.
“These white foreigners are——.” He did not say what, but shook his head
with mysterious meaning. The boy’s eyes grew larger and deeper, but he
only continued to look up into his father’s face in wondering silence.
“I shall leave you at home to-morrow, to keep you from his wicked
sorceries.”
“Papa!”
“What, my son?”
“I think it will do no good to leave me at home.”
“Why?”
“He has done something to me.”
“Who? the _Kalah-byoo_?”
“I do not think he has hurt me, papa; but I can not—keep—away—no—oh,
no!”
“What do you mean, Moung-Moung?”
“The sorcerer has done something to me—put his beautiful eye on me. I
see it _now_.” And the boy’s own eyes glowed with a strange, startling
brilliancy.
“_’Mai, ’mai!_ what a boy! _He_ is not a sorcerer, only a very provoking
man. His eye—whish! It is nothing to my little Moung-Moung. I was only
sporting. But we will have done with him; you shall go there no more——”
“If I can help it, papa!”
“Help it! Hear the foolish child! What strange fancies!”
“Papa!”
“What, my son?”
“You will not be angry?”
“Angry!” The soft smile on that stern, bearded face was a sufficient
answer.
“Is it true that she—my mother——?”
“Hush, Moung-Moung!”
“Is it true that she ever _shikoed_ to the Lord Jesus Christ?”
“Who dares to tell you so?”
“I must not say, papa; the one who told me said it was as much as life
is worth to talk of such things to _your_ son. Did she, papa?”
“What did he mean? Who could have told such a tale?”
“Did she, papa?”
“That is a very pretty _goung-boung_ the foreigner gave you.”
“Did she?”
“And makes your bright eyes brighter than ever.”
“Did my mother _shiko_ to the Lord Jesus Christ?”
“There, there, you have talked enough, my boy,” said the father,
gloomily; and the two continued their walk in silence. As the
conversation ceased, a woman who, with a palm-leaf fan before her face,
had followed closely in the shadow of the stranger—so closely, indeed,
that she might have heard every word that had been spoken—stopped at a
little shop by the way, and was soon seemingly intent on making
purchases.
“Ko Shway-bay!” called out the missionary. A man bearing a large
satchel, which he had just newly filled with books, appeared at the door
of an inner apartment of the zayat.
“_’Ken-payah!_”
“Did you observe the tall man who just passed, leading a little boy?”
“I saw him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He is a writer under government—a very respectable
man—haughty—reserved——”
“And what else?”
“He hates—Christians, _Tsayah_.”
“Is he very bigoted, then?”
“No, _Tsayah_; he is more like a _päramät_ than a Boodhist. Grave as he
appears, he sometimes treats sacred things very playfully, always
carelessly. But does the teacher remember—it may be now three, four—I do
not know how many years ago—a young woman came for medicine——?”
The missionary smiled. “I should have a wonderful memory, Shway-bay, if
I carried all my applicants for medicine in it.”
“But this one was not like other women. She had the face of a
_nät-thamee_” [goddess or angel], “and her voice—the teacher _must_
remember her voice—it was like the silvery chimes of the pagoda bells at
midnight. She was the favorite wife of the _Sah-ya_, and this little
boy, her only child, was very ill. She did not dare ask you to the
house, or even send a servant for the medicine, for her husband was one
of the most violent persecutors——”
“Ay, I do recollect her, by her distress and her warm gratitude. So this
is her child! What has become of the mother?”
“Has the teacher forgotten putting a Gospel of Matthew in her hand, and
saying that it contained medicine for _her_, for that she was afflicted
with a worse disease than the fever of her little son; and then lifting
up his hands and praying very solemnly?”
“I do not recall the circumstance just now. But what came of it?”
“They say,” answered the Burman, lowering his voice, and first casting
an investigating glance around him—“they say that the medicine cured
her.”
“Ah!”
“She read the book nights, while watching by her baby, and then she
would kneel down and pray as the teacher had done. At last the _Sah-ya_
got the writing.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Only burnt it. But she was a tender little creature, and could not bear
his look; so, as the baby got out of danger, she took the fever—”
“And died?” asked the missionary, remarking some hesitation in the
manner of his narrator.
“Not of the fever altogether.”
“What then? Surely, _he_ did not—”
“No, _Tsayah_! it must have been an angel-call. The _Sah-ya_ was very
fond of her, and did everything to save her; but she just grew weaker,
day after day, and her face more beautiful; and there was no holding her
back. She got courage as she drew near Paradise, and begged the _Sah-ya_
to send for you. He is not a hard-hearted man, and she was more than
life and soul to him; but he would not send. And so she died, talking to
the last moment of the Lord Jesus Christ, and calling on everybody about
her to love him, and worship none but him.”
“Is this true, Shway-bay?”
“I know nothing about it, _Tsayah_; and it is not very safe to know
anything. The _Sah-ya_ has taken an oath to destroy every body having
too good a memory. But,”—and the man again looked cautiously around
him—“does the teacher think that little Burman children are likely to
run into the arms of foreigners without being taught?”
“Aha! say you so, Shway-bay?”
“I say nothing, _Tsayah_.”
“What of the child?”
“A wonderful boy, _Tsayah_. He seems usually as you have seen him; but
he has another look—so strange! He must have caught something from his
mother’s face just before she went up to the golden country.”
The missionary seemed lost in thought; and the assistant, after waiting
a moment to be questioned further, slung his satchel over his shoulder,
and proceeded up the street.
The next day the missionary remarked that the _Sah-ya_ went by on the
other side of the way, and without the little boy; and the next day, and
the next the same. In the meantime, the wrinkled old water-bearer had
become a sincere inquirer. “The one shall be taken and the other left,”
sighed the missionary, as he tried to discern the possible fate of his
bright-eyed little friend.
The fourth day came. The old water-bearer was in an agitated state of
joy and doubt—a timid but true believer. The self-confident philosopher
had almost ceased to cavil. Fresh inquirers had appeared, and the
missionary’s heart was strengthened. “It is dull work,” he said to
himself, though without any expression of dullness in his face; “but it
is the Saviour’s own appointed way, and the way the Holy Spirit will
bless.” Then his thoughts turned to the stern _Sah-ya_ and his little
boy; and he again murmured, with more of dejection in his manner than
when he had spoken of the dullness of the work, “And the other left—the
other left!”
The desponding words had scarcely passed his lips when, with a light
laugh, the very child who was in his thoughts, and who somehow clung so
tenaciously to his heart, sprang up the steps of the zayat, followed by
his grave, dignified father. The boy wore his new Madras turban,
arranged with a pretty sort of jauntiness, and above its showy folds he
carried a red lacquered tray with a cluster of golden plantains on it.
Placing the gift at the missionary’s feet, he drew back with a pleased
smile of boyish shyness, while the man, bowing courteously, took his
seat upon the mat.
“Sit down, Moung-Moung, sit down,” said the father, in the low tone that
American parents use when reminding careless little boys of their hats;
for, though Burmans and Americans differ somewhat in their peculiar
notions of etiquette, the children of both races seem equally averse to
becoming learners.
“You are the foreign priest,” he remarked civilly, and more by way of
introduction than inquiry.
“I am a missionary.”
The stranger smiled, for he had purposely avoided the offensive epithet,
and was amused and conciliated by the missionary’s frank use of it. “And
so you make people believe in Jesus Christ?”
“I try to.”
The visitor laughed outright; then, as if a little ashamed of his
rudeness, he composed his features, and with his usual courtesy resumed,
“My little son has heard of you, sir; and he is very anxious to learn
something about Jesus Christ. It is a pretty story that you tell of that
man—prettier, I think, than any of our fables; and you need not be
afraid to set it forth in its brightest colors; for my Moung-Moung will
never see through its absurdity, of course.”
The missionary threw a quick, scrutinizing glance on the face of his
visitor. He saw that the man was ill at ease, that his carelessness was
entirely assumed, and that underneath all, there was a deep, wearing
anxiety, which he fancied was in some way connected with his boy. “Ah!
you think so? To what particular story do you allude?”
“Why, that of the strange sort of being you call Jesus Christ—a _nät_,
or prince, or something of that sort—dying for us poor fellows and
so—ha, ha! The absurdity of the thing makes me laugh; though there is
something in it beautiful, too. Our stupid _pongyees_ would never have
thought out anything one half so fine; and the pretty fancy has quite
enchanted little Moung-Moung here.”
“I perceive you are a _pâramät_,” said the missionary.
“No—oh, no; I am a true worshipper of Lord Gaudama; but of course
neither you nor I subscribe to all the fables of our respective
religions. There is quite enough that is honest and reasonable in our
Boodhistic system to satisfy me, but my little son” (here the father
seemed embarrassed, and laughed again, as though to cover his confusion)
“is bent on philosophical investigation—eh, Moung-Moung?”
“But are you not afraid that my teachings will do the child harm?”
The visitor looked up with a broad smile of admiration, as though he
would have said, “You are a very honest fellow, after all;” then
regarding the child with a look of mingled tenderness and apprehension,
he said softly, “Nothing can harm little Moung-Moung, sir.”
“But what if I should tell you I do believe everything I preach, as
firmly as I believe you sit on the mat before me; and that it is the one
desire of my life to make everybody else believe it—you and your child
among the rest?”
The _Sah-ya_ tried to smile, tried to look unconcerned; but his easy
nonchalance of manner seemed utterly to forsake him in his need; and
finally abandoning the attempt to renew his former tone of banter, he
answered quietly, “I have heard of a writing you possess, which, by your
leave, I will take home and read to Moung-Moung.”
The missionary selected a little tract from the parcel on the table
beside him, and extended it to his visitor. “_Sah-ya_,” said he,
solemnly, “I herewith put into your hands the key to eternal life and
happiness. This active, intelligent soul of yours, with its exquisite
perception of moral beauty and loveliness,” and he glanced toward the
child, “cannot be destined to inhabit a dog, a monkey, or a worm, in
another life. God made it for higher purposes; and I hope and pray that
I may yet meet you, all beautiful, and pure, and glorious, in a world
beyond the reach of pain or death, and above all, beyond the reach of
sin.”
Up to this time the boy had sat upon his mat like a statue of silence;
his usually dancing eyes fixed steadfastly upon the speakers, and
gradually dilating and acquiring a strange, mystic depth of expression,
of which they seemed at first incapable. At these words, however, he
sprang forward.
“Papa! papa! hear him! Let us both love the Lord Jesus Christ! My mother
loved him; and in the golden country of the blest she waits for us.”
“I must go,” said the _Sah-ya_ hoarsely, and attempting to rise.
“Let us pray!” said the missionary, kneeling down.
The child laid his two hands together, and placing them against his
forehead, bowed his head to the mat; while the father yielded to the
circumstances of the case so far as to re-seat himself. Gradually, as
the fervent prayer proceeded, his head drooped a little; and it was not
long before he placed his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with
his hands. As soon as the prayer was ended, he rose, bowed in silence,
took his child by the hand, and walked away.
Day after day went by, the _Sah-ya_, as he passed the zayat, always
saluting its occupant respectfully, but evincing no disposition to
cultivate his acquaintance farther. He was accompanied by the boy less
often than formerly; but, from casual opportunities, the missionary
remarked that a strange look of thoughtfulness had crept into the
childish face, softening and beautifying, though scarcely saddening it.
And when occasionally the little fellow paused for a moment, to ask for
a book, or exchange a word of greeting, the gay familiarity of his
manner seemed to have given place to a tender, trustful affection,
somewhat tinctured with awe.
Meanwhile that terrible scourge of Eastern nations, the cholera, had
made its appearance, and it came sweeping through the town with its
usual devastating power. Fires were kindled before every house, and kept
burning night and day; while immense processions continually thronged
the streets with gongs, drums, and tom-toms, to frighten away the evil
spirits, and so arrest the progress of the disease. The zayat was closed
for lack of visitors; and the missionary and his assistants busied
themselves in attending on the sick and dying.
It was midnight when the over-wearied foreigner was roused from his
slumbers by the calls of the faithful Ko Shway-bay.
“Teacher, teacher, you are wanted!”
“Where?”
The man lowered his voice almost to a whisper; but, putting his hands to
each side of his mouth, sent the volume of sound through a crevice in
the boards. “At the _Sah-ya’s_.”
“Who?”
“I do not know, _Tsayah_. I only heard that the cholera was in the
house, and the teacher was wanted, and so I hurried off as fast as
possible.”
In a few minutes the missionary had joined his assistant, and they
proceeded on their way together. As they drew near the house, the Burman
paused in the shadow of a bamboo hedge.
“It is not good for either of us, that we go in together; I will wait
you here, _Tsayah_.”
“No, you need rest; and I shall not want you—go!”
The verandah was thronged with relatives and dependents; and from an
inner room came a wild, wailing sound, which told that death was already
there. No one seemed to observe the entrance of the foreigner; and he
followed the sound of woe till he stood by the corpse of a little child.
Then he paused in deep emotion.
“He has gone up to the golden country, to bloom forever amid the royal
lilies of Paradise,” murmured a voice close to his ear.
The missionary, a little startled, turned abruptly. A middle-aged woman,
holding a palm-leaf fan to her mouth, was the only person near him.
“He worshipped the true God,” she continued, suffering the individuality
of her voice to glide away and mingle the wail of the mourners, and
occasionally slurring a word which she dared not pronounce with
distinctness; “he worshipped the true God, and trusted in the Lord our
Redeemer—the Lord Jesus Christ, he trusted in Him. He called and he was
answered, he was weary, weary and in pain; and the Lord who loved him,
He took him home to be a little golden lamb in His bosom forever.”
“How long, since, did he go?”
“About an hour, _Tsayah_.” Then joining in the wail again, “An hour amid
the royal lilies; and his mother—his own beautiful mother—she of the
starry eyes and silken hand——”
“Was he conscious?”
“Conscious and full of joy.”
“What did he talk of?”
“Only of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose face he seemed to see!”
“And his father?”
“His father—oh, my master! my noble master! he is going, too! Come and
see. _Tsayah!_”
“Who sent for me?”
“Your handmaid, sir.”
“Not the _Sah-ya_?”
The woman shook her head. “The agony was on him—he could not have sent,
if he would.”
“But how dared _you_?”
There was a look such as might have been worn by the martyrs of old upon
the woman’s face as she expressly answered, “God was here!”
In the next apartment lay the fine figure of the _Sah-ya_, stretched
upon a couch, evidently in the last stage of the fearful disease—his
pain all gone.
“It grieves me to meet you thus, my friend,” remarked the visitor, by
way of testing the dying man’s consciousness.
The _Sah-ya_ made a gesture of impatience. Then his fast stiffening lips
stirred, but they were powerless to convey a sound; there was a feeble
movement, as though he would have pointed at something, but his
half-raised finger wavered and sunk back again; and a look of
dissatisfaction amounting to anxiety passed over his countenance.
Finally renewing the effort, he succeeded in laying his two hands
together, and with some difficulty lifted them to his forehead; and then
quietly and calmly closed his eyes.
“Do you trust in Lord Gaudama in a moment like this?” inquired the
missionary, uncertain for whom the act of worship was intended. There
was a quick tremor in the shut lids, and the poor _Sah-ya_ unclosed his
eyes with an expression of mingled pain and disappointment; while the
death-heavy hands slid from their position back upon the pillow.
“Lord Jesus, receive his spirit,” exclaimed the missionary, solemnly.
A bright, joyous smile flitted across the face of the dying man, parting
the lips, and even seeming to shed light upon the glazed eyes; a
sigh-like breath fluttered his bosom for a moment; the finger which he
had before striven to lift, pointed distinctly upward, then fell heavily
across his breast; and the disembodied spirit stood in the presence of
its Maker.
The thrilling death-wail commenced with the departure of the breath; for
although several who had been most assiduous in their attentions, glided
away when it was ascertained that he who would have awarded their
fidelity was gone; there were yet many who were prevented, some by real
affection, some by family pride, from so far yielding to their fears, as
to withhold the honors due to the departed.
“You had better go now,” whispered the woman, “you can do no further
good, and may receive harm.”
“And who are you that you have braved the danger to yourself of bringing
me here?”
“Pass on, and I will tell you.”
They drew near the body of the child, which, by the rush to the other
apartment, had been left, for a moment, alone.
“See!” said the woman, lifting the cloth reverently. A copy of the
Gospel of Matthew lay on his bosom.
“Who placed it there?”
“He did, with his own dear little hand—_Amai! amai-ai!_” and the woman’s
voice gave expression to one swell of agony, and then died away in a low
wail, like that which proceeded from the adjoining room. Presently she
resumed, “I was his mother’s nurse. She got this book of you, sir. We
thought my master burned it, but he kept, and maybe studied it. Do you
think that he became a true believer?”
“To whom did he _shiko_ at the last moment, _Mah-aa_?”
“To the Lord Jesus Christ—I am sure of that. Do you think the Lord would
receive him, sir?”
“Do you ever read about the thief who was crucified with the Saviour?”
“Oh, yes; I read it to Moung-Moung this very day. He was holding his
mother’s book when the disease smote him; and he kept it in his hand,
and _went up_, with it lying on his bosom. Yes, I remember.”
“The Lord Jesus Christ is just as merciful now as he was then.”
“And so they are all——oh, _’ken-payah_! it is almost too much to
believe!”
“When did you first become acquainted with this religion, _Mah-aa_?”
“My mistress taught me, sir; and made me promise to teach her baby when
he was old enough; and to go to you for more instruction. But I was
alone, and afraid. I sometimes got as far as the big banyan tree on the
corner, and crawled away again so trembling with terror, that I could
scarcely stand upon my feet. At last I found out Ko Shway-bay, and he
promised to keep my secret; and he gave me books, and explained their
meaning, and taught me how to pray, and I have been getting courage ever
since. I should not much mind now, if they did find me out and kill me.
It would be very pleasant to go up to Paradise. I think I should even
like to go to-night, if the Lord would please to take me.”
It was two or three weeks before the missionary resumed his customary
place in the zayat by the wayside. His hearers were scattered widely; in
the neighboring jungles, in far-off towns, and in that other place from
whence “no traveller returns.”
Where was his last hopeful inquirer?
Dead.
Where the priest?
Dead.
Where the philosopher?
Fled away, none knew whither.
And the poor old water-bearer?
Dead—died like a dog in its kennel; and but that some pitying Christian
had succeeded in discovering her at the last moment, without a human
witness. But—and the missionary’s heart swelled with gratitude to God as
he thought of—there were other witnesses, nobler, tenderer, dearer to
that simple, lone old creature, than all the earthly friends that ever
thronged a death-bed; and these had been her bright, rejoicing convoy to
the Saviour’s presence.
Oh! how full of awe, how fearfully laden with the solemn interests of
eternity, appeared this wondrous work of his! And how broad and clear
seemed his sacred commission, as though at that moment newly traced by
the finger of Jehovah!
[Illustration: _FINIS_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
On p. 65, there is an unmatched opening double quotation mark. There
does not seem to be a clear place to close it, and were it removed, the
following words (“he himself heard him mutter...”) make better sense.
The final line on p. 244 seems to end a paragraph (‘...to open the
gate.’). However, the first line on the following page begins in
mid-sentence (‘...used to carry’). It is apparent that p. 244 should end
with ‘I’, which we have adopted.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
33.17 [‘/“]having prepared myself Replaced.
65.30 [“]just before the drop fell Removed.
98.36 How do you know[?] that? Removed.
113.20 [n/m]ust be briefly mentioned Replaced.
134.13 mentioned Moung Thah[-]lah Inserted.
230.19 with a dozen Burmans[./,] Replaced.
227.3 who will do the work better.[’]” Inserted.
244.30 to open the gate. [I] used to carry Added.
256.34 He could not recover her.[”/’] Replaced.
287.8 a strip of country along the[ the ]sea Removed.
303.24 [‘]Virtues they have Removed.
314.14 In the “Threefold Cord,[”] Added.
324.37 with which he striv[ /e]s to comfort Restored.
328.19 spears, knives, etc[,/.] Replaced.
383.12 [‘]_wages_’ Added.
453.17 the translation of[,] the New Testament Removed.
513.7 over the whole earth[’/”] Replaced.
555.42 composed the passive limbs decent[ /l]y Restored.
595.22 become a sincere inquirer[,/.] Replaced.
598.29 I shall not want you—go![”] Added.
598.30 The ver[a]ndah was thronged Restored.
600.2 receive his spirit[’/”], Replaced.