Hudson Taylor, chieán só anh duõng cho Chuùa hudson taylor

Chapter 10

With his long blue gown, cloth slippers, and a clean shaven head from the crown of which dangled a long pigtail, he looked as much like a Chinese man as a fair-skinned, blue-eyed Yorkwhire youth could possibly expect to look. Months ago he had taken the step of dressing exactly as the Chinese did. He had called down a good deal of criticism from fellow-Europeans, but he was able to mingle much more freely with the Chinese themselves, and had traveled extensively in places where most Europeans would have been mobbed. This was the first time he had ever had to sleep out of doors. Things seemed to have been going wrong lately. First there was the fire which had destroyed all his medicines—a serious loss, for they would be very expensive to replace. Then, the disappearance of his servant and all his luggage two days ago, leaving him stranded with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. Now, there was the crowning misfortune of being unable to find a lodging. Well, when day broke he would have some breakfast, make a final search for the missing servant and luggage, and then return to Shanghai. It would be futile to attempt to reach Ningpo, where the Parkers were now living, with the small amount of money left in his possession. He pressed his face into his hard pillow, sighed sleepily, closed his eyes.

Suddenly he was wide awake, his body tense but motionless. What was that moving in darkness? A dim figure was coming stealthily across the wide steps toward him, and Hudson, still lying as though asleep, discerned the ragged form of a beggar. The man crept silently to the missionary, and stood looking down at him. Hudson did not move, and after a minute or two, evidently assured that he was asleep, the beggar bent down and began gently feeling him.

“What do you want?”

Hudson spoke quietly enough, but there was an ominous ring in his voice! The beggar was taken by surprise. The man lying there wasn’t asleep after all—indeed, he sounded very much awake, as though he were prepared to take immediate action! The beggar beat a hasty retreat.

Hudson decided his money should be in a safer place than under his sleeping head, so having put some of it in an inner pocket, and the rest up his sleeve, settled down again. He was just dozing off when some instinct once more aroused him. He was conscious of movements in the darkness, the dim outlines of silent figures approaching. The beggar had retuned with a companion or two! Hudson lay motionless until he felt a hand moving behind his head, feeling for the bag of cash.

“What are you doing?” demanded Hudson.

“Spending the night here outside the temple—like you,” came the reply.

“Then kindly go over to the other side, and leave me here,” said Hudson. “There is plenty of room for you there.”

The men made no reply to his suggestion, but did not move. Hudson therefore, sat up. It was useless lying there, where he might drop off to sleep. He would certainly be robbed of all he had left unless he kept his wits about him.

“You’d better lie down and sleep,” said one of the beggars, disarmingly, “or else you’ll not be able to work tomorrow. Don’t be afraid,” he continued reassuringly, “we shall not leave you. We’ll see no one does you any harm!”

“You listen to me,” said Hudson stoutly. “I don’t want your protection. I don’t need it. I am not a Chinese, and I don’t worship your idols. I worship God. He is my Father, and I trust in Him. He will protect me. I know what you are, and what you intend doing. I tell you, I shall not go to sleep. I intend keeping my eye on you.”
The beggars did not move, and neither did Hudson. Sitting with his back to the wall, trying not to nod off to sleep, the hours passed slowly. Every now and then he made a remark, partly to make the men realize he was still awake, and partly to help himself to remain so! Eventually he hit on the idea of keeping himself awake by singing, and when he got tired of that, repeated passages of Scripture aloud, and then prayed. These devotions did much to cheer him, while having the reverse effect upon the beggars who grumbled to each other, urged him to be quiet, and finally departed. Just before dawn, seeing they had disappeared down the narrow street, Hudson relaxed, and even slept for a little while.

“Foxes have holes, the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.” The words had a new meaning for him that day, as he trudged along the track between endless rice-fields on his way to the place where he hoped to get on a boat going to Shanghai. His Master knew what it was to be despised and rejected, as he had been the previous day when searching in vain for a lodging. His Master knew what it was to suffer the cold and discomfort of sleeping out of doors, and to be dogged by unscrupulous men. How insignificant seemed his own sufferings and humiliations compared with all that Jesus Christ, the Lord of Glory had endured for him! How little it mattered if he had lost all his belongings, as certainly appeared to be the case! The souls of these Chinese people were of infinitely more value than his cherished earthly possessions. Why had he worried so much about them, and cared so little about the souls of these poor, ignorant, sinning people? “Oh, Lord,” he prayed as he walked along, “forgive me for all my shortcomings. Help me to do only Thy will, help me to follow in Thy footsteps...” Nothing else mattered much, but to follow in those footsteps, and to become more like his Master.

That night he was invited by friendly boat-people to sleep on board with them, and glad indeed he was to do so. It was cold without his bedding, but it was a relief to lie down without fear of being robbed. He got up the next morning with a sore throat but a light heart, for all anxiety about his losses was gone. After all, God was well able to restore them to him if that would be for the best, and if not, then he did not want them!
Now all that remained was to find a boat going to Shanghai, and return there forthwith. He would search for his servant and his luggage no more. He set out on the long walk to the town where he hoped to find a boat, and after paying for the breakast he had in a little wayside inn, he found he had only enough to pay his fare and provide him with food for the three or four days it would take to reach Shanghai. Now to find a boat to take him there as soon as possible!

But there was no boat going to Shanghai. There was not even one going as far as Ka-shing Fu, he was told. Hudson tramped from boat office to river bank, inquiring of any likely individual whether he knew of a boat going in the direction of Shanghai—all in vain. The boats were grounded in the dry river bed, and until rain came and the waters rose, there they must remain. It might be weeks before they could move—and he had only money enough to last about five days! Hope seemed well-nigh gone when suddenly he espied a mail boat, small than the heavy cargo junks that lined the river bank, making its way along the narrow stream that still flowed in the middle of the bed. It was going in the direction of Ka-shing Fu!

“No!” was the reply.

“Are you going in that direction?”

“No!”

Hudson stopped dead, watching the boat go on. This was the last straw! He felt sick, and a wave of coldness seemed to sweep over him.

“Better sit down,” he thought, and sank down on the grassy river-bank, suddenly faint. Then everything went blank.

How long he lay like that he did not know. Gradually he returned to consciousness, and as he did so he heard the sound of voices. They came from the other side of the canal, and as he came to himself he realized they were talking about him.

“He speaks pure Shanghai dialect,” someone said—in pure Shanghai dialect! They evidently took him for a native of their own city. The next thing he knew a small boat was coming across the water to fetch him, and he was invited to come on board.

The kindly junked-people heard his story sympathetically. His servant had disappeared with his luggage, he himself had been searching for two days, and now he had only sufficient money to take him back to Shanghai—and there was no boat! They looked pitifully at the weary Westerner who was dressed as they were, and spoke their language like a native. And when, after he had drunk some tea, they gave him warm water to wash his feet, it was with little exclamations of surprise that they saw how blistered they were. But his troubles were at an end. The captain of the junk gave him food, then found a boat going to Shanghai and offered to pay the fare himself, if necessary. The tide of misfortune had turned at last.

On his arrival back in Shanghai Hudson set on foot inquiries about the servant who had disappeared with his luggage. Had the man met with difficulties himself—been arrested, perhaps by some unsympathetic official who did not approve of Chinese who worked for Westerners? Or had he just made off with the stuff himself? It was long before it became apparent that the latter was the case, and Hudson was strongly advised to have the law on him! Such a man ought to be punished, he was told, and Hudson agreed in theory. However, there was another point to be considered. He had many times preached to his servants of the love of God, of the forgiveness which the Lord Jesus Christ showed even to those who nailed Him to the cross. Here was his opportunity to demonstrate that spirit of forgiveness, by returning good for evil. Instead of putting the case into the hands of a Chinese mandarin, therefore, he wrote his servant a letter, pointing out the wrong he had done, and urging him to change his ways. How much more important it was, thought Hudson, that the man’s conscience should be touched, that he should turn to God and his soul be saved from Hell, than that he should get back his baggage! If only this act of forgiveness would have that effect on the man, how willingly would Hudson be deprived of twice the amount he had lost—if he had twice the amount which, in point of fact, he had not! Having dispatched the letter, he set about selling what sticks of furniture still remained to him in order to make up as best he could the indispensable possessions he had lost, before setting out once more for Ningpo.

Just as he was preparing to leave, news came that a mailboat had arrived from England. The arrival of a mailboat was always hailed with joyful anticipation by the European community, and Hudson as eager as anyone to collect the letters that he hoped would be awaiting him at the agent’s office. He had to endure a few supercilious glances from top-hatted gentlemen who had also arrived to collect their mail, and who viewed the pigtailed Englishman in Chinese clothes with undisguised scorn. He was getting accustomed to that! He received his letters, and returning home eagerly scanned them. Would there be one from his mother, or Amelia, with news of home and Barnsley? Would there, by some good chance, be one from the Chinese Evangelization Society containing his salary? Or one from his friend Ben, perhaps, to say he wanted to come and join him in the work?

Ah! Here was one in a handwriting that was becoming familiar. It was from Mr. Berger, a man who had grown very interested in the work of the young missionary, and whose friendly letters always breathed a warm encouragement that cheered Hudson’s heart. He opened it, and read until he came to the words:

“Please accept the enclosed as a token of love from myself and my dear wife.” The enclosed—what was it? Hudson opened out the little slip of pink paper tucked inside the letter and saw with amazement that it was a check made out to him—for forty pounds (about $200.000) Hudson just stared at it.

There it was again! Another tangible evidence that God knew all about his affairs. He had lost that amount of baggage, and here was the money to replace it—sent out from England at least six weeks before he had been robbed! (He little knew then that another such sum was soon to be on its way from someone else, too!) How glad he was that he had taken no steps to have his servant punished for stealing his things! And as he set out again through the beautiful province of Chekiang, with its orchards and steep little hills, its willows and its paddy-fields, he felt like a boy who had passed another examination, and heard the ring of commendation in his master’s voice as he said, “Well done!”

Chapter 11

The European commnity thought so too. While they did not attribute the earthquake to her, knowing full well that the bottle contained nothing more devastating than smelling salts, they felt that she did something more noteworthy than that every day of her life. At five o’clock in the morning, winter or summer, wet or fine, she went for a walk on the city wall. It mattered not to her if it were pitch dark. She merely instructed a servant to accompany her with a lantern, and sallied forth as usual for her daily constitutional. Af five o’clock in the morning! It would have required more than a mere earthquake tremor to induce the European community to do likewise! Yes, if for that feat alone, they agreed she was a wonderful woman. But that was not all. The pioneer woman missionary of Ningpo, founder of the first Protestant school for girls in China, she had a capacity for work which left frailer mortals breathless. She would listen to her pupils reading their lesson to her even while was eating her meals. And as for holidays, she would none of them. Other missionaries might go off to the seaside to regain health and strength after their exertions, but Miss Aldersey got the sea breezes by climbing to the ninth story of a tall pagoda, and sniffing them from there. Some of her pupils accompanying her, she was thus enabled to continue imparting knowledge to them unhindered. A remarkable woman, without doubt, and if the British Consul did not always do exactly what she wanted, he certainly would not have dared to let her know!

It was most unfortunate for Hudson, therefore, that such an influential and awe-inspiring person as the admirable Miss Aldersey should have taken a deep, strong and rooted dislike to him. Such, however, was the case. The very mention of his name was sufficient to stiffen her frail little body with what she considered wholly righteous indignation. For Hudson Taylor had actually had the temerity, that audacity, the unmitigated effrontery, to propose to Maria!

Maria was the orphan daughter of a missionary, and she was one of the teachers in Miss Aldersey’s school. A very useful teacher she was, too, fond of children, and speaking Chinese like a native. She was rather pretty, and Hudson was not the first young man who felt that the name Maria would look better in front of his surname than in from of her own. However, Miss Aldersey did not hold that against her, for after all, the girl could not help it. To give Miss Aldersey her due, she was quite prepared to part with her attractive, efficient young teacher if a really suitable man appeared on the scene. But Hudson Taylor! That young man who always wore Chinese clothes and a pigtail! A pigtail of his own hair, mark you, dangling from the crown of his head! Who was he, anyhow? A poor, young, unconnected nobody! A fanatic, completely undependable, whom no reputable missionary society would ever employ! Marry Maria! Never! He was merely after her money!

Poor nineteen-year-old Maria was overwhelmed. As far as her own feelings were concerned, the idea of marrying Hudson, pigtail or no pigtail, appealed to her strongly. Truth to tell, it had occurred to her several weeks before Hudson had even mentioned it, although, needless to say, she had kept it to herself. Now, however, in the face of Miss Aldersey’s wrath and powerful reasons, she felt helpless. At that lady’s dictation she sat down and wrote a curt letter to say that the proposal was wholly impossible, adding that if Hudson had any gentlemanly feeling at all, he would never again refer to the subject. Miss Aldersey took the letter off in triumph, Maria went to her room and burst into tears, and Hudson, who had expected a more favorable reply, felt as though a door had been slammed, loudly and finally, in his face.

It was not easy to settle down to live and work in Ningpo after that rebuff, but Hudson knew that he must do so. He had already obstained possession of a shop which made an excellent preaching-hall, and was living, not with the Parkers, who were in charge of a hospital but with a young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who had recently arrived in China. Hudson’s days were full, preaching, visiting Chinese who were inquiring about this “Jesus religioun” and doing medical work. It was well for him that they were. He was very lonely. His hopes of companionship all seemed to crash, one by one. When first he came to China he had hoped that before very long his sister Amelia would come and join him. He was fond of Amelia, for all his teasing, and felt she would have been just the one to run the home for him, and work among the Chinese women. Then he had been encouraged by letters from his friend Ben, who was evidently deeply interested in his experiences. Perhaps he would come! It was somewhat of a shock, therefore, when he received the news that Amelia and Ben were engaged, and were settling down at home. Now that Maria who, it must be admitted, he had felt would make an even better companion than either of them, had turned him down, he was bereft indeed.

The days of early summer, therefore, were not without their sadness for him. He was perplexed. He had prayed a great deal about the matter before he had gone so far as to propose to Maria. It was strange that things should have taken the turn they had, when he had felt convinced he was doing the right thing. And somehow, try as he would, the feeling that it was the right thing still persisted. He would have been quite certain about it, had he been able to hear Maria’s daily prayers, as she knelt by her bedside, morning and night! She very much wanted to be Mrs. Hudson Taylor!

Hudson, however, knew nothing about that. All he had go to on was Maria’s letter, and that had been final—apparently. Certainly, he knew he was intended to regard it as such, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt he couldn’t. It was her writing, but it was not her way of putting things. He began to wonder if it was not more like Miss Aldersey’s of putting things...If only, thought Hudson, it were possible to see Maria when Miss Aldersey was not around. But in old China, where custom forbade an unmarried man to try to meet an unmarried woman, his hands were tied. Their paths rarely crossed. The one effort he had made to talk to her misfired, and he found himself left with someone else, while Maria was whisked away in a sedan chair! Eventually he decided there was nothing he could do about it. His pigtail dangled disconsolately through the hot, sticky June days, as he went about the narrow streets, and preached for an hour or so each in the “Jesus Hall.” He could not but realize that were he to cut if off, he would be regarded as being a much more suitable match for Maria. But if he cut it off, it would mean he could no longer move about freely among the Chinese, who regarded him almost as one of themselves. And he knew why he had heard that Voice “Go for Me to China.” There was a work for him to do in this land, and that work was to spread abroad the knowledge of the only One who can save from eternal death. There were towns and cities, villages, and hamlets lying in the interior, that were waiting for that news, and he must go...The pigtail must remain. But as Hudson knelt by his bedside, night and morning, praying for the Chinese, the name of “Maria” was also mentioned with fervent supplication, before he rose from his knees.

And then, quite suddenly in the middle of July, the whole situation was changed by a waterspout.

It was an amazingly well-timed waterspout. It came sweeping up the river one afternoon when Mrs. Jones was entertaining all the lady missionaries in Ningpo in her home. It broke over Ningpo in a startling deluge, followed by torrential rain. In no time all the streets were running with water and emptied of people. Water poured off roofs and formed ponds and pools in unexpected places, and the ladies looked out of the windows of Mrs. Jones’ drawing room and wondered how and when they would get home again. It was indeed much later than usual that some sedan-chair carriers eventually arrived at the front gates, their trousers rolled up over their knees, and water dropping from the wide brims of their coolie hats. And even then, there were more ladies than sedan chairs. So, naturally, some ladies had to stay behind, while some were carried home. Among those who were carried home was Miss Aldersey. Among those who still awaited sedan chairs was Maria. And there she was when Hudson and Mr. Jones arrived home from the preaching hall!

A smallish drawing room in which three or four people are sitting is not considered an ideal place for a proposal of marriage, especially from someone who has already been rejected. Hudson realized that, and his first intention when it dawned on him that here at last was Maria without Miss Aldersey, was merely to ask politely if he might write to her guardian in London for permission to cultivate her acquaintance! However, once he started, he found himself saying more than that, in spite of onlookers. And Maria, usually rather quiet and reserved, responded with surprising and encouraging warmth! In a remarkably short time the position was made quite clear. When the sedan chairs arrived to convey the remaining ladies through the muddy streets to their homes, no one in the drawing room was left in any doubt as to how matters stood. Young Hudson Taylor had Maria’s full permission and approval to write to her guardian. And although no such sentiment was expressed in words, it was evident to all that not even one of Miss Aldersey’s earthquake would him prevent him doing so!
* * *
Although Hudson wasted no time in writing to Maria’s guardian, it was over four months before he received a reply, for his was not the only letter that the mailboat carried from Ningpo to London addressed to Mr. Tarn. Miss Aldersey wrote to him, too! Mr. Tarn felt it necessary to make a few discreet inquiries from people in London who knew Hudson before committing himself, but when he had done that he decided that if his niece and ward wanted to marry this young missionary with a pigtail, there was no reason he knew of why she should not do so. He merely stipulated that as she was now already over twenty, she should wait until she came of age before taking the step. Less than a year after the occasion of the waterspout, therefore, Hudson and Maria were married and had settled into the attic over the preaching chapel in Bridge Street.

Bridge Street, Ningpo, was suitably named, for it was a narrow thoroughfare which started with a bridge and ended with a bridge. As one of them spanned a canal, which ran along at the back of his home, Hudson had plenty to remind him of the old days. He had first taken up his abode in this attic when he was a lonely bachelor, and one morning had awakened to find it covered with a thin film of snow, which had drifted in through the tiled roof during the night. He had waited long enough to trace his initials on the coverlet before he stepped gingerly out of bed and get dressed! However, he decided that the place probably needed doing up a bit before he could bring Maria there, so when she arrived, as Mrs. Hudson Taylor, it was to find it partitioned off into four or five little rooms, all of which had ceilings! And there, living right among the Chinese, dressing as they did and speaking their language, they settled down to their work.

Chapter 12

CHINESE CONVERTS

Mr. Nee, tall and dignified in his silk gown and jacket, walked slowly along the narrow street. The coolies, with their rough straw hats and sandaled feet moved t one side as they saw his approaching, for he was obviously a man of learning, one who could not only read, but understand, the classics. As such, he was entitled to the respect of the unlearned. Those who recognized him knew also that he was a well-to-do businessman, and for this reason, too, the poorer people stood aside. Mr. Nee moved easily along the street with its flagged pathway and its wide doorways, musing on the uncertainties of life, and still more on the uncertainties of death. What, he wondered, happened after death? The mystery that shrouded that dark unseen disturbed him, making him apprehensive and uneasy. Where was the Way, the Truth that would bring relief and enlightenment to his perplexed mind?

The clanging of a bell attracted his attention, and he turned to see from whence the sound came. One of the double-leafed doorways stood wide open, and as Mr. Nee looked into the courtyard, he saw several people walking across it, and into the door of a long room. It looked at though some sort of meeting was about to commence.

“What are they doing in there?” he inquired of a street vendor, standing by his little portable stall.

“That’s the Jesus Hall,” came the reply. “Foreigners live in there. When they ring that bell, then they do their worship.”

“What do they do when they worship?” asked Mr. Nee.

“They sing, and read from their sacred classics, and then explain what they have been reading.”

Mr. Nee looked again at the open doorway, and decided to go in. He would investigate this foreign religion. Perhaps it would explain some of the dark mysteries of life and death. He entered the room, sat down on one of the benches, and looked toward the little raised platform where a young man was standing, reading aloud from a book he was holding in his hands.

At first sight, the young man appeared to be a Chinese, for he was dressed as such, and only his light eyes and white skin betrayed him. But Mr. Nee was not so much interested in the young man as in what he was reading, and he listened intently to the story of a conversation a Teacher called Jesus had with a man who came to see Him at night.
“As Moses lifeted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up: the whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God sent not his Son into to the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.”

Everlasting life. That was what Mr. Nee wanted. Not to be condemned, but to be saved. He sat in the preaching hall that evening, gripped by what he heard. This Jeus, whom the foreigners worshiped, was God’s own Son. He had come from Heaven into the world as a Man, had died upon a cross, when He bore the sins of all the world, and after He had been dead three days, He came to life again. He came out of the tomb. He walked and talked with His friends, and then one day He left the earth and went back to Heaven. He would give everlasting life to all who believed in Him.

So this was the Way! Sitting in that preaching hall, with its rice-paper windows and rows of wooden benches, Mr. Nee knew without any doubt that this was the Way. Something within him responded unquestioningly to what he heard. His sadness and perplexity departed. When Hudson closed his Bible and ceased preaching, Mr. Nee rose to his feet. All eyes were turned to him as he said, with quiet, oriental gravity:

“I have long sought the truth, as my father did before me, without finding it. I traveled far and near, searching for the Way, but never found it. In the teachings of Confucius, the doctrines of Buddhism and Taoism, I have found no rest. But I have found rest in what we have heard tonight. Henceforth I am a believer in Jesus.”

And he was as good as his word. He explained quite simply to his friends why he would worship and burn incense to the gods no more. He obtained a Bible and commenced studuying it, attended the meetings in the preaching hall, and accompanied the missionaries practically every day when they went preaching and visiting. He was not the first Chinese who had turned from idols to the living God after hearing Hudson preach, but none, perhaps, had turned so clearly and definitely on the first hearing of the message.

“How long have you had this Good News in your honorable England?” he asked Hudson one day.

Hudson hesitated. This Chinese gentleman, who had responded so gladly and readily to the loving invivation of the living God was so eager that others should hear it too!

“Several hundred years,” said Hudson, rather reluctant to have to admit it was so long.

“Several hundred years!” exclaimed Nee in amazement. “Is it possible that in your honorable country you have known about Jesus so long, and only now you have come to tell us?” In his mind’s eye he saw a man he had loved, earnestly reading the classics, eagerly going to the temples to prostrate himself before the still, unresponsive idols, sitting in silent thought and meditation, seeking to understand the mysteries of life and death, a sadly wistful expression on his face.

“My father sought the truth for more than twenty years,” he said slowly. “And he died without finding it. Oh, why did you people not come sooner?”

Through Mr. Nee’s enthusiasm in speaking to all he met about Jesus the Lord, Wang the basket maker also became a believer. A cheerful, impetuous man was Wang and he went forward on the Chrìstian pathway not without a tumble or two! His sincerity was evident. He had been accustomed to working seven days a week like everybody else around him, until he joined the Christians. When he heard, however, that the living God had ordained that one day out of seven should be set apart as a day of holy rest, he obeyed the command without questions. It meant his employer did not give him any food, nor yet the princely salary of two-pence which was paid for each day’s work, although he was expected to accomplish as much in his six days as he had previously done in seven! But Wang the basket maker felt himself well repaid for his sacrifice as he sat in the Jesus Hall on Sundays and listened to the amazing stories from the Holy Book. And when his irate employer, during the busy season, informed him that if he would not work for him on Sundays he could not work for him at all, Wang decided that he must look for employment elsewhere.

On Monday morning he visited another basket maker, to find another job. No, he was not wanted. He went to another, with the same result. He tramped around the city in vain. Although they were all so busy, none of the basket makers would employ him. Wang came to the conclusion that the Devil was making things hard from him because he was determined to worship, instead of work, on Sundays.

“I must resist him,” thought Wang. He was not prepared to take that sort of opposition lying down, for Wang was a man of some spirit! “I will resist him! If he won’t let me get other employment, then I’ll give my time to plucking souls from his kingdom!” He made no further efforts to obtain employment, but took a bundle of tracts, and sallied forth into the street to talk to men he could find who were willing to listen to him preaching about Jesus! And that was how he met Wang the farmer.

Wang the farmer, some time previously, had had a remarkable experience. He had been lying alone in his home in the little village of O-zi, seriously ill, when he heard a voice calling his name. Knowing none of his family were in the house, he clambered slowly from his big, four-poster bed, to go to the door. No one was there. He lay down again, when for the second time he heard his name called. Once more he dragged himself to the door, only to find no one there. Thoroughly frightened, he cowered under the wadded coverlet. Surely, he thought, this was the voice of the King of Hell, come to warn him that death was approaching!

Then he heard the voice again. It told him not to be frightened, for he was not going to die. He was going to get well! And when he was well, he was to go to the city of Ningpo, thirty miles away, where he would hear of a new religion. This religion, the voice said, would bring him peace of heart.

To everyone’s surprise, Wang the farmer did get well! And remembering his instructions, he went to Ningpo. However, he searched in vain for the new religion. No one seemed to have heard of it. For several weeks he lived in the city, earning his living by cutting grass and selling it to people who had cattle to feed, always hoping to hear of the religion that would bring him peace of heart. But it was not until Monday when he encountered Wang the basket maker that he found it.

Wang the basket maker was sitting in a teashop, talking eargerly to a group of men who were in there sipping tea. He was talking about a God whom he called Jesus, who could forgive sins, when Wang the farmer came in and sat down. However indifferent the other listeners may have been to the preacher’s message, one at least was spellbound! Oblivious to the buzz of conversation that came from the men who lounged in bamboo chairs around the little tables of the teashop, deaf to the cries of the street vendors and the coolies passing up and down the narrow street outside, Wang the farmer had ears only for what the man at the next table was so eagerly telling those who were sitting with him. Forgiveness of sins, and a free entry into Heaven for all who came to this God, Jesus—was not this the new religion that would bring him peace of heart?

Wang the basket maker and Wang the farmer left the teashop together. They spent the evening poring over the New Testament, and Wang the farmer was told that he must go to Jesus Hall, where the foreign teacher would explain to him still more concerning this Jesus religion. Wang the basket maker went to bed that night with the knowledge that he had indeed snatched a soul from the Devil’s kingdom!

He obtained employment early Tuesday morning. The very first basket maker to him he applied took him on without hesitation. Wang soon discovered the reaon for this sudden reversal of fortune. His former employer, angered by his refusal to work on Sundays, had notified all the other basket makers, who belonged to the same society as himself, not to employ Wang if he came round on Monday looking for work. On Monday, therefore, Wang searched for employment in vain. But now it was Tuesday, not Monday, and that was quite a different matter. It was the busy season, Wang was a good basket maker, and whatever his for employer had meant, he had certainly said Monday. Any of the men who had turned Wang away the previous day would willingly have taken him on Tuesday.

It was not long after Hudson had been introduced to Wang the farmer that Wang the basket maker arrived one day at the Jesus Hall with another man. This time it was a painter, whom he had met in the courtyard of a wealthy family where he had gone to sell baskets. The ladies of the house, standing around him on their tiny, bound feet, wanting little baskets to keep their incense in, had inquired with some annoyance why he refused to make them. The single-hearted Wang explained that as a believer in Jesus, the True God, he could have nothing to do with idols, the incense that was burned to them, nor yet the baskets in which the incense was kept. The ladies had listened to this strange Jesus doctrine for a while, then, tiring of it, had turned back into the house. He was gathering up his baskets to carry them off the premises when a young man, dressed in coolie clothes, suddenly appeared before him.

“What was that you were saying?” demanded the stranger. “You didn’t see me—I was up there, painting.” He pointed to a ladder that leaned against the wall, under a gaily-colored overhanging roof. “What was it you were saying? I heard—but tell me again!”

Wang needed no second bidding. The painter listened again to this surprising news of a living God who desired to save, not to punish, erring men, and when it was suggested that he should go to the Jesus Hall to learn more, he readily agreed.

Hudson smiled and bowed at the new arrival. Wang the basket maker was certainly a good fisher of men! It was only a short time ago that he had brought along Wang the farmer, and now this one! He looked into the dark, earnest eyes of the young working man before him, and asked politely,
“What is your honorable surname?”

“My despicable surname,” came the answer, “is Wang.”

Chapter 13

LAUNCHING A MISSION

Wang the painter shuffled along the narrow passage of No. 1, Beaumont St., Whitechapel, and opened the front door. In his loose-fitting Chinese clothes, his skimpy pigtail dangling down his back, he looked strangely out of place against a rather dingy little house in a London sidestreet. The young man standing outside the door suppressed a start of surprise when he saw him. It had not occurred to him that the missionary from China whom he had come to see would have brought a Chinese servant back with him.

“Is Mr. Taylor at home?” inquired young Meadows.

“Please come in,” said Wang in his soft pidgin English. “I go see master.” In a minute he returned to show the visitor into a small, barely-furnished room. Hudson was sitting there, engrossed on the task that had occupied him since he had returned from China a few months previously, and which was likely to prove a long one—the revision of the New Testament in Chinese. His pigtail had gone, now that he was back in England, and in his old, well-worn suit he looked like a poor clerk. Cold though the day was, the fire was nearly out! Young Meadows’s quick eyes took in the apparent poverty of the man he had come to see, and who was rising now, a bright, welcoming smile on his face, to greet him. When, later, he sat down to a simple dinner with Hudson and Maria, and observed that the tablecloth was distinctly grubby, and the food, cooked by Wang, was not up to standard, he might well have felt discouraged at what he saw of the life of missionaries. But as a matter of fact, he was not discouraged. These two young people, both under thirty, who could tell him such tense and thrilling stories of besieged cities, escapes from pirates, and who had such wonderful answers to their prayer, made a deep impression on him. It was evident that they had a purpose in life. It did not matter to them if their clothes were old-fashioned or their carpets had holes. They simply were not concerned about clothes and carpets. What absorbed them was the realization that millions of Chinese knew nothing about the true God, and therefore they must be told. And young Meadows who felt the same way about it, and wanted to go to China to tell them as soon as possible, decided that Hudson was the missionary society he would like to join!

Hudson had to explain that although he was most eager that people should go to China to spread the good news that God loved man, and hoped to return there himself soon, he was really not in the position to be a missionary society, as he had no money! He had not enough to send even one missionary to China. Actually, since he had returned to England, a very sick man, he had rarely known from where the next month’s rent would come. He had long since left the Chinese Evangelization Society, and was so busy completing his medical training and revising the Chinese New Testament that he had no time to “work for a living.” It was remarkable how the money came in, sometimes in the very nick of time, from friends and relatives who were interested in him, and in China. He realized that it was God who moved them to do it, and his faith in his heavenly Father increased greatly. All the same, he felt he was in no position to employ missionaries, in those circumstances, and said so.

Young Meadows, however, felt otherwise. After all, if God could move people to support His servant, Hudson Taylor, could He not also move people so support His servant, young Meadows? At any rate, inspired by what he had seen and heard, he assured Hudson that he was willing to go to China on the assumption that God would do for him.
And so Hudson obtained his first missionary, who sailed for China a few months later. Remembering his own early experiences in Shanghai, Hudson determined that his missionary should receive money and letters regularly, not spasmodically. He bought a large, important-looking account book, in which he made careful entries of money received and transmitted it to young Meadows very promptly. He also bought a file to keep letters in, and wrote often. After a year, young Meadows’ only cause for complaint was that he was so well looked after, and received money so regularly, that he sometimes felt he was not living by faith in God at all! He seemed quite disappointed at not suffering hardships through shortage of money! Hudson replied that he had no idea where his next month’s salary was coming from, or how much it would be, and that they must continue praying to God for supplies. Young Meadows was reassured!

But what was one more missionary in a land where millions upon millions of people were living and dying without once hearing of the only True God? There was a large map of China hanging on the wall of the little study in 1, Beaumont St., Whitechapel. Hudson’s eyes constantly roamed over it was he lifted them from the Chinese and English Bibles on the desk before him. He read over and over again the names of provinces far away from the coast. Such musical, picturesque names they had. They stirred the imagination—South of the Clouds, Four Streams, West of the Mountains, North of the Lake, Clear Sea, South of the River…. Protestant missionaries had never penetrated into these distant places, and Hudson thought of the hundreds of cities, the thousands of towns, and the tens of thousands of villages they contained. Hundreds, thousands, millions. …It was the thought of the millions that continually oppressed him. Millions of Chinese people—lovable, erring Chinese people, like Mr. Nee, and Wang the basket maker, and the farmer from the village of O-zi. He was reminded of the Chinese people every day as he looked into the face of the faithful painter Wang, who had left home and country to serve him. And then he remembered the monk who was walled into a cell in the temple, hoping to find “the Way.” He thought of Mr. Nee’s father, who had sought “the Way” for twenty years, and died without finding it. And the more he prayed that God would send missionaries to those faraway provinces, the more he felt he ought to do something about it himself.

He had already approached all the missionary societies he could think of, to urge them to send men to inland China—to those vast provinces where millions of people were still waiting to hear of Jesus. He had been listened to sympathetically enough, but told that nothing could be done at present. The thought came again that he ought to start a missionary society himself, to go to those remote inland regions West of the Mountains, South of the Clouds, North of the Lake...

He studied the map on his study wall long and earnestly and often. There were eleven great provinces, and the mysterious country of Tibet, with no missionaries. If only, thought Hudson, there were but two missionaries for each province! That would, at any rate, be a start.

“Then why don’t you ask God to send them to you?”

It was a most unwelcome thought, and Hudson did not like it. He did not want to start a missionary society to go to inland China. He was quite prepared to go there himself, but he did not want to send other people. Suppose when young men and women sent by him got there, insufficient money was received to support them? Suppose they died of starvation? Or suppose the Chinese were angry at people coming to preach a different religion, and killed them? All sorts of horrible possibilities came to his mind. How terrible, thought Hudson desperately, to have been the one to send them to their death! The responsibility was too great, he felt, and he tried to put away the thought of starting a missionary society. But he could not. There it was, and there it remained.

It was on a Sunday morning in June, on the beach at Brighton, that he finally decided he would have to do it. Walking slowly over the pebbles down to the water’s edge, he looked across the calm, sunlit sea with his mind in a turmoil. Think of being responsible for sending men and women to the unknown regions of inland China, where perhaps they might die of starvation! On the other hand—think of leaving those millions of Chinese to die without knowing God! That was far more dreadful. And then, quite suddenly, it occurred to him that even if the missionaries did all die of starvation, well, they would go straight to Heaven—and what could be better than that! And if, before they died, they had turned only one Chinese from worshipping the Devil to worshipping God, it would have been worth it. This somewhat pessimistic reflection, strangely enough, made him feel quite a lot brighter.

Then another thought occurred to him. If he did start a missionary society to go to the inland of China, it would only be because he knew that God was urging him to do him, then all the responsibility for what happened would be God’s, not his!

Now why, thought Hudson, had that not occurred to him before? God would be responsible, not he! As this realization sank into his mind, he felt as though a great, crushing load was being gently rolled away.

“Oh, Lord!” He prayed with a tremendous sense of relief. “Thou shalt have all the burden!” It had gone already—no longer was he oppressed by the thought of starving missionaries! “I will go forward as Thy servant, at Thy bidding...” Yes, he must start a missionary society, and now he knew he could. All fears of what might happen in the future had disssolved like a morning mist before the sun. What happened as a result of obeying God’s voice was not his responsibility. All he had to do was to go forward, asking God to send what was necessary to start a missionary society to go West of the Mountains, South of the Clouds, North of the Lake...

Eleven provinces and Tibet, thought Hudson. There should be two workers for each, to begin to take the good news of God’s love to man to the interior of China. Twice twelve are twenty-four. So Hudson, standing bare-headed on the beach that Sunday morning, closed his eyes. He stood like that for several minutes, the waves lapping at his feet. Then he opened his Bible, and made a note in it. “Prayed for twenty-four willing skillful laborers at Brighton, June 25, 1865,” and walked lightheartedly over the pebbles to the promenade where full-skirted ladies strolled with top-hatted gentlemen, and sprightly horses trotted between the shafts of coaches and pony traps. But Hudson had no eyes for the fashionably dressed people thronging the sea front. His thoughts were very far away. Twenty-four workers, including Maria and himself, to take the good news to the millions in Four Streams, South of the River, Clear Sea, North of the Lake...

He never doubted but that God would answer his prayer. Nor did it trouble him that he, who had barely enough money to support his wife, and family, would now begin to require an income of thousands of pounds a year to support the twenty-four willing, skillful laborers. If he was doing God’s work in God’s way, God would certainly send in the money required!

Hudson was very practical. The workers and the money would be provided, were probably already on the way! He must prepare for them. He returned to London on Monday, and on Tuesday he paid a visit to the bank.

“I want to open a new banking account,” he told the manager.

“How much have you to start with?” inquired that official.

“Ten pounds.” ($50)

“And whose name is the banking account to be in?”

“The China Inland Mission,” said Hudson.

The missionary society was launched!

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