IT is nearly forty years since a book that lies near me as I write came fresh and new from the hands of its printers. The bright crimson binding is a good deal faded now, and there is an old out-of-date look about the volume. Still I remember, as I turned its pages, the delight with which I first read the thrilling story those pages tell; a story, too, that I hope we shall all think more interesting, because it is quite true, than any make-believe tale could possibly be.
But some of you are getting a little impatient and want to know "what my book is about.”
“Perils among the Heathen." But perhaps a few of my young friends say they hardly know yet if the book will suit them. A boy I know told me one day, Oh, I forgot it was to be a secret, so you won't tell, will you? "That he did not care much for reading except when he could get stories about shipwrecks or lion hunts.”
Have a little patience, Master Harry, for as the country I am going to tell you about is so far off from England or America that it can only be reached by a long sea voyage, I shall have something to say about the perils of the deep. And as many miles of it are covered by jungle, and as, of course, you know that many kinds of wild creatures find in the jungle the homes they like best, I think I may promise you one or two stories about lions before we have to say good-bye to each other.
We have all read in our geography books about Burmah, forming as it does part of the great Indian Empire. We know that ivory, sweet spices and costly woods are among its exports. We shall, I hope, all learn some things we did not know before about the country and its people before I close my old book and put it back into its place on the shelf. But just now what I want to tell you is a story of long ago.
Six hundred and twenty-four years before the Lord Jesus, the Son of God, became the Babe of Bethlehem, we are told by Hindoo writers that an Indian prince was born. He was an only son, and so heir to the throne. His father, who loved him dearly, had given orders to his servants that they were never even to speak of death or dying in the presence of their young master; if any of them were ill they were to be sent away at once, and the prince, whose name was Gautama, was never to be allowed to hear of any one being sick or in trouble. We must remember that the poor king, though he was so rich and powerful, had no Bible, and did not know anything about the one true God; so perhaps it is not so very surprising that he wished his son to think this world a beautiful and happy place, and to believe that he could stay in it forever.
But sickness and sorrow and death are such very real things that all the care of his father could not keep Gautama from knowing something about them. It is said that one day when returning from a hunting-party he saw a leper all covered with sores, and though his attendants drove the poor man away they were not able to do so quickly enough to prevent his being seen by the prince, who seemed much interested and asked a number of questions, which, however, his servants were afraid to answer, so they tried to divert his attention by talking of other things. But all their efforts failed, for Gautama remained for a long time silent and thoughtful.
On another occasion he met a very aged man with whom he insisted on stopping to converse, and appeared much troubled on learning that all his riches could not prevent him from growing old.
Gautama had learned two things, that old age and sickness are in the world, and before very long he was to turn another page in the lesson-book of life and find out something of the stern reality of death.
Riding one day at a distance from the palace he caught sight of a funeral procession. At first he could not understand what it all meant, but as the truth dawned upon his mind he became very unhappy, and finding his servants were unwilling to answer his questions, went, we are told, to the wisest men in the kingdom with the question, "Must I die, too?" filling his heart.
In vain the sages pleaded the commands of the king. Gautama had set his heart upon knowing, and would go away, he said, when his question was answered, but not before. So at last, slowly and sorrowfully they were obliged to reply in some such words as, "To die, O prince, is the lot of all things. Death comes alike to the high and low, the rich and the poor.”
Gautama returned to his home feeling, we may be sure, as if all the light and joy had gone out of his life. He no longer cared for his beautiful palace or his royal robes, for he knew that one day he must leave them and go away: he did not know where.
After thinking about it for a long time, he resolved to leave all his friends and live by himself in the woods, so that he might spend his whole time in trying to find out what would become of him after death. I cannot help feeling sorry for the poor young prince, can you? For he was just like one who in blinding darkness tries to find his way along a road he does not know. And Gautama had no light.
You all know what I mean, don't you? Perhaps some of you are already thinking of a verse from one of the psalms that tells us of the only true light: "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." (Psa. 119:105105NUN. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path. (Psalm 119:105).) But I must go on with my story. He was about twenty-nine years of age when the Hindoo books tell us he kissed his sleeping wife and infant son, and leaving the palace in the silence and darkness of night, went far into the forest. But he did not find it so easy as he expected to live alone, for a great many people who looked up to and thought Gautama a good and great man, followed him and he became their teacher. They called him Buddha, and said that he was a god, and when he died at the age of eighty they believed that his soul had gone to live in the body of a white elephant, of which they took great care and always treated very kindly.
What did Gautama teach the people? Some very strange, sad things, one being that the soul after the death of the body would pass into the body of some animal, such as a sheep or a dog. The followers of Buddha think that after a very long time the soul goes out or becomes nothing.
Do many people believe what I have been telling you? Yes, far greater numbers than you or I could count; they are to be found in vast numbers all over India and China, and are called Buddhists.
It was among these far-away people who had never heard of the Lord Jesus and His love that the little band of missionaries I promised to tell you about were called to live and work. They had a message from God for those dark ignorant people. They were to tell them that light had come into the world. Light, too, that shone so brightly that the darkness could not bear it, and so man in his pride and self-will put out the Light. But you know the "old, old story" just as well or perhaps even better than I do.
You know how the Lord Jesus, God's Lamb, was nailed to the cross, bearing in His own body on the tree the sins of all who believe on Hine. (See 1 Peter 2:2424Who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree, that we, being dead to sins, should live unto righteousness: by whose stripes ye were healed. (1 Peter 2:24).) You know, too, that God raised Him from the dead, and that He is a living Savior now at God's right hand in heaven.
But it was to those that did not know that the Judsons were to make Christ known. It was among those who had never heard the good news of the gospel that they were to speak of their own precious Savior. In my next chapter I hope to tell you something about the early years and school-days of two of that mission band. Two to whom God gave the sowing-time, though others were, I think, allowed to share in the joy of harvest.