08 THE PRISONER OF HOPE

Chapter 8 THE PRISONER OF HOPE

We afterwards met from time to time many men in chains on their way to the capital of the province, and I have reliable authority for stating that about a thousand heads fall every year. -- CONSUL HOSIE.

IT matters little what his real name was. We always thought of him and spoke of him as the " Prisoner of Hope." I had good cause to remember him, for he was the first " Celestial " I was privileged to baptize He had the misfortune (or, shall we say the distinction) of being the first Christian convert of his village. On that account he had many enemies. His family were hostile, and indeed the whole village community felt that it had " lost face " through this despicable concession to the " foreign devil." Yet he dared to believe, and bravely struggled to follow the larger light. He was quite young about four-and-twenty and the scholar (so called) of his family. His father owned a small croft, just sufficient to provide for the simple wants of his numerous family.

It was early autumn. The hemp had just been gathered from the fields, and was deposited in the bed of the river to steep, a common custom. There was nothing to fear. It had always been done in former years. In the morning when the farmer awoke his hemp was gone. " This is because of the Jesus religion, " he muttered, as he found himself confronted with his loss. " The gods are angry," and he had bitter thoughts of all the trouble that his son had brought upon the household.

Under cover of night, four robbers crept up the river in a boat, loosed the hemp from its moorings, allowed it to glide to a convenient spot, then seized it. It was a good night’s work. Half of it was quickly sold for a goodly sum, and the robbers made merry on the proceeds of their spoil. The farmer reported the case to the village headman. Search was made, and after a while the culprits were found. They willingly restored the unsold half of the hemp, but the money for the other half was gone. The village commune, unwilling to let slip so good an opportunity of a squeeze, were bringing pressure to bear in which art they are masters upon the robbers. One of them, smarting under the process, got muddled with wine, and thinking the farmer the cause of his torture, went to his house to remonstrate. In his passion he lost all control, and stabbed himself with the knife he had brought to kill his enemy. And now the poor farmer was convinced that because of the " foreign religion " a curse rested upon his house. He almost wished that he himself had died in order to shield his family from disgrace. For, according to Chinese law, when a man commits suicide at your door, you are held responsible for his death. Rumor said that there must have been an old-standing feud between the two men, as well as the affair of the hemp, but of that there was no evidence, and the farmer vigorously denied it. Fate had dealt hardly with him. First his son is bewitched by the foreigner, then he loses half his hemp, and now crime lies at his door in the person of the dead robber. At the other end of the village there lived a wealthy gentleman. He was a strict Confucianist a member of the literati, holding a high degree. He might have held a magistrate’s post, but inclined to the more peaceful life of a country gentleman. Such men exercise a powerful influence over the village communities where they live. Now, though he knew little about it, this gentleman took pleasure in denouncing, on all occasions, the " Jesus religion." To introduce it into their village he regarded as an act of impiety, and he swore that he would stamp out the pest. Here was his opportunity. The dead robber had at one time been in his service, so he came forward as the champion of the widow’s cause. And so zealous was he that one sometimes wondered whether there might not have been some subtle connection between him and the theft of the hemp. The Confucianist scholar came to the city to prosecute the case before the provincial magistrate. The " Prisoner of Hope " came to see me and told me the whole sad story.

" There is only one way," he said, " to save my father. He is an old man. The prison life would kill him."

" How can you save him ? " I inquired.

" I mean to offer myself in his stead," he replied.

I did not know then, but afterwards learned, that Chinese law permits this, and it is regarded as peculiarly virtuous when the son bears his father’s punishment. In China, as in ancient Rome, the family, and not the individual, is the unit. If the family be punished, the law is satisfied, for when " one member suffers, all the members suffer with it." So when the officers of justice came, the " Prisoner of Hope " offered himself, and was taken away to the Yamen. His fellow- Christians cheered him with what words of comfort they could command, though all knew that he might never come out alive. The Confucianist scholar, animated by the spirit of Saul of Tarsus when he made havoc of the church and haled men and women to prison, went to the Temple of Literature and enlisted the sympathy and support of his literati brethren. Unitedly they brought the might of their influence to bear upon the magistrate and his officials in the usual way chiefly by bribes. At length the day of trial came. The " Prisoner of Hope " " crossed the Hall," and with hands bound, knelt on the bare ground before the magistrate seated on the bench. But there was no attempt at examination. The other parties were never called, and the stealing of the hemp was never mentioned. The magistrate, with his mind made up, thundered at him from the bench, " Do you confess your guilt ? " For no one is legally condemned till he confess. Should the magistrate decide in his own mind that the prisoner is guilty, he is tortured till he confess. So when asked this question, the " Prisoner of Hope " replied, "They are guilty who stole our hemp."

Foiled in this attempt, the magistrate again thundered at him, " Do you follow the foreigner ? "

" No," replied the " Prisoner of Hope " ; " but I follow Christ."

" Give him a hundred blows on the mouth," said the magistrate, and thus ended the trial. The " Prisoner of Hope " was led away to his cell. We heard from time to time of his sad plight, but rejoiced to know that he was much cheered during those dark days by thoughts of Christ. My heart went out to this brave Christian lad. After repeated solicitations from his friends, I approached the magistrate on his behalf, and ventured, without interfering with the course of justice, to bring before his notice the facts that seemed to me to mitigate the crime with which he and his were charged. This made His Excellency pause.

I had risen early one morning to enjoy the fresh cool air. Suddenly the stillness around was broken by the clanging of cymbals. The noise grew louder as it approached the house. I soon discovered that something unusual was about to happen. An outrider from the Yamen dashed up to the gate, and, dismounting, handed a long red strip of paper, with some hieroglyphics upon it, to my servant. It was the magistrate s card. In a few minutes the remaining outriders had drawn up in line at the gate. Then, the magistrate himself, borne in his screened palanquin by eight sturdy men, passed up the line and entered my courtyard. For a moment the spectacle of so much pomp unnerved me. Emerging from the " chair," His Excellency made a profound bow, and after a few minutes palaver as to who should first enter the house, we found ourselves seated face to face in my study. Our subject of conversation was, of course, the " Prisoner of Hope." He applauded his action in offering himself on behalf of his father. So conspicuous an example of filial piety could not fail to appeal to his imagination. He discoursed on the law of the Celestial Empire with regard to suicide. But I could not help feeling that in reality he had come to discover what weight he was to give to my opposition. Probably in his heart he pitied the prisoner. He had manifestly been bought over to the other side. As he left I could not help feeling that the " Prisoner of Hope " would not be released till he had paid the uttermost farthing. The weary months dragged past. We were now in winter. All our entreaties and efforts were unavailing. The " Prisoner of Hope " had to shiver in his cold cell with no ray of hope to cheer him. But the time was not misspent. It was a time of growth. Christ became the Bread of Life to his soul. And his fortitude made a deep impression upon the minds of his fellow-prisoners.

Hope twice revived. One day a prisoner who had been confined for many years, was passing the prison kitchen. Weary of the restraint of prison life, he seized a huge knife and cut his throat. Should he die, the law would be turned against the magistrate by the prisoner’s friends - a suicide at his door! They sent post-haste to the hospital. The doctor went, sewed up the wound, and the unfortunate man lived long enough to save the magistrate s " face." Was it the handwriting on the wall? If so, it conveyed no message to the magistrate s soul. He hardened his heart after his own deliverance, and refused to liberate the " Prisoner of Hope."

Once again, a bank failed. The magistrate was to blame, for he allowed the bank to issue notes out of all proportion to its capital. The manager of the bank drank opium and tried to poison himself. Should he die, the bank could not be re-established, and the people would demand the magistrate’s dismissal and degradation. Again the medical aid of the foreigner was sought, and the life of the manager saved. The bank weathered the storm, and the affair was hushed up. Was it the voice of Providence? If so, it fell upon unheeding ears. The limits of human endurance had been reached. After five months confinement and payment of a large sum, the " Prisoner of Hope " was set free. It was Sunday morning. He came straight to church. The service had commenced. As he entered, looking pale and emaciated, many eyes were turned tenderly upon him, and many a silent thanksgiving for his deliverance went up to God. Shortly afterwards the " Prisoner of Hope " became a preacher, and showed by his consistent life how deep was his attachment to his Lord. A year passed. I was going up the river Liao in a pea-boat. On the Sabbath day we moored by the river s bank, and I wended my way to the village, where I knew there was a " place of prayer." When I arrived the service had already begun. At my sudden appearance there was a slight commotion among the devout worshippers, some of whom in their desire to greet me, seemed likely to forget the solemnity of worship. A voice from the platform, " tsoa- li-pai" ("make worship"), held the wavering congregation in check. It was the " Prisoner of Hope." He was beginning his sermon from the text : " For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved." It was to me a fountain of water opened in a dry and desert land. I was spiritually refreshed. I blessed God for the testimony of the " Prisoner of Hope," and took fresh heart in my work for this people. In his own village, he no longer stands alone, but through his witness there are many who name the name of the Crucified.