lived among us.' And as I read on, I found that the Word that was with
God, and was God; and created all things; and became flesh and lived
on earth was the same Jesus Christ that I had been reading about in
Matthew, Mark and Luke! I went home and told my wife that I had become
a Christian; and that as the preacher said that all who enter the
Jesus Christ religion must receive the dipping ceremony I am going
to get baptism." "Were you not afraid your heathen neighbours would
make trouble?" I asked him. "What trouble could they make, teacher?
Nearly all of them were in debt to me. But when I told my heathen
wife, she was very angry, and said, 'Very well. If you want to be
baptized,--_be_ baptized,--but I _will not be a Jesus Christ wife_. I
never, never will live with you.' Finding that she would not relent I
said: 'Do not go away.
"'All this trouble is not because of your changing, but because of my
changing. If anybody is to suffer, I must be the one to suffer. There
are the eleven buffaloes, and the six rice-fields, and the house, and
the banana garden,--take everything,--only let me have the thirty
rupees in the box, and I will go away. I will go to Toungoo. If they
will not baptize me there, I will go to Henzada. If they will not
baptize me there, I will go to Bassein. If they will not baptize me
there, I will go to Maulmein.' I had taken the Jesus Christ religion
with my whole mind, and I was determined to be baptized." This was no
idle boast.
He meant just what he said, and, like Paul, was ready to suffer the
loss of everything, that he "might gain Christ, and be found in Him."
His example, so unlike his former self, soon softened his wife's
heart, and she now said: "Never mind, do as you like,--we will live
together."
Not long afterwards she too became a Christian. Wherever U Po Hline
went he fearlessly preached Christ. But it was in his own village
that his influence was specially felt. His faithfulness and success
seemed sufficient evidence of a call to the ministry. Greatly needing
such helpers, I soon arranged for him to give his whole time to
evangelistic work. His ordination, at the Pegu Association held in
Toungoo in 1894,--will long be remembered by the missionaries present.
A missionary at a frontier station sent a request that an ordained
preacher be furnished to baptize several converts already gained, and
to accompany his young preachers on a tour among the villages.
The matter was laid before U Po Hline, and left for him to decide
whether he wished to go, or could stand the long hard journey over
the mountain ranges. Accepting it as a call from God, and trusting
to Him for strength, he got ready and started at once. After spending
a month in that distant field, he prepared to return to his home. It
was a long tramp of sixteen days. The missionary gave him money to
hire a coolie to help carry his load. Besides his roll of bedding,
cooking utensils and food, one of the young preachers had given him
three lacquer-ware vessels, as presents for his former teachers.
The coolie must be paid in advance, according to the custom of the
country. After going a few miles the coolie found an excuse to get out
of U Po Hline's sight, and ran away, taking the money with him. At
the next village another coolie was engaged, who must also be paid in
advance. They had gone but a short distance when he too ran away. U Po
Hline was now without money to pay for help, so he trudged on alone,
carrying the load of two.
He got along very well so long as his path lay along the mountains.
But when he descended into the plains his strength gave out, and he
found himself burning with fever. There was no other way than to plod
on, as he was now far from any village. Finding himself unable to
carry all of his double load, he first threw away some of the cooking
utensils.
Growing weaker, he threw away the bottle of oil and part of the rice.
He would not part with the presents that had been entrusted to his
care for the teachers, whom he loved. To give the rest of the story
in his own words:--"I would plod on until my legs would sustain me no
longer. Then on my knees I would pray: 'O Father, I have been away
doing Thy work, I did the best I could, now give me strength to reach
my home.'
"Then I would get up and go on again until, from weakness, I fell down
in the path. Then I would pray again: 'O Father, I have been away to
do Thy work. I did the very best I could. Now do give me strength to
reach my home.' So I went on, falling, praying, struggling on again,
until at last I reached the cart-road, and joined some cartmen. I had
carefully saved my last rupee to pay my fare when I should come to the
railroad. I thought,--if I must, I can sell my silk turban. But the
cartmen were kind, and gave me food, while I preached to them." As he
finished his story he untied the bundle, and laid the lacquer-ware
presents at our feet, utterly unconscious of the fact that by his
devotion to his teachers, and to what seemed to be his duty he had
shown a spirit of true heroism, worthy to be "told as a memorial" of
him.
A short time before I left Burma U Po Hline came to me and said,
"Saya, I have been thinking like this:--The Apostle Paul said to the
Corinthian Christians, 'Paul planted, Apollos watered; but God gave
the increase.' When Saya came to Pyinmana thirteen years ago there
was not a Christian in this town nor in all this great jungle. No nor
ever had been. It was all wild, the dwelling place of dacoits, tigers,
bears, and snakes. Saya has been planting all these years. There has
been some reaping, to be sure,--but much more is ready for reaping.
When I first came to Pyinmana, wherever I showed myself, in Bazar or
street, the people would call to one another: 'Come and see Jesus
Christ, come and see Jesus Christ.' 'Yes,' I would say, 'I am here to
represent Jesus Christ.' Sometimes they would listen to my preaching,
but often they would jeer so that I could not preach, they were so
ignorant and wild.
"But now, besides our little company of Christians, there are
many in these villages who listen attentively, and some are truly
'considering.'
"Now Saya must return to America, and another Saya will come. Don't
go away discouraged, Saya. We shall _soon be reaping_ here. You will
hear about it, and be glad. If it is God's will that you return to
Burma, you will 'come rejoicing.' When I first came to Pyinmana,"--he
continued; "I had a dream. In my dream I saw great fields of rice on
three sides of this town. These fields were turning yellow, promising
an early and large harvest. How like the Bible, is my dream, I
thought. This dream strengthened my faith and made me glad. God's time
is not yet full, but I believe it will be full soon. This Pyinmana
mission is Corinth. Saya is Paul. Saya has planted, the coming
missionary will be Apollos, to water the planting. God will give the
increase." May this noble Christian hero live many years, to cheer and
help the missionaries, in their common effort to dispel the heathen
darkness.
This faithful native pastor is but one of many who hold not their
lives dear to themselves that they may accomplish their course and the
ministry which they have received from the Lord Jesus, to testify the
gospel of the grace of God.
Nan Paw was born in Ya-bok-kon village, in the year 1877,--so
she thinks, but is not certain as to the village or the date. When
we first saw her she was an orphan, as to her father; worse than
orphaned as to her heathen mother. Both Nan Paw and her elder sister
had already been several years in the mission school. The sister,
Mai Lone, came first. Now and then she returned to her village home
with such wonderful stories of tidy white jackets, pretty _longyis_
(skirts), clean beds, and nice new books, that little Nan Paw wanted
to come too. She wanted to see the big "white mamma," and enjoy the
life that her sister was leading. Mai Lone had learned to read,--a
wonderful thing for a girl to do. Not a girl in the whole village
could read, no, not even her own mother! And Mai Lone could sing,
too! Little Nan Paw sighed for these privileges and accomplishments,
and was a heathen no longer. Never again could she know contentment
among the dogs and filth and degradation of her own village. But in
vain she entreated her mother to let her go with Mai Lone to live
at the mission school. Finding that her pleadings were of no avail,
she took the matter into her own hands, and _ran away_. The mother
finding her little girl settled down in the mission dormitory to stay,
finally gave her consent. When we came to take charge of the school
Nan Paw had already overtaken the older girls in her studies. The
smallest in the class, she was head and shoulders above them all in
brightness and winsomeness. To see her was to love her. It would not
do to make a pet of her, for petting spoils native children as quickly
as kittens. Quick to see what needed to be done, and how to do it, she
soon became very useful about the house. A little later a Christian
Endeavour Society was organized. Nan Paw may have learned to love
Jesus before this; but now, with several others she gave herself to
Him fully and openly, and to the great joy of all, was baptized. The
years rolled by,--and Nan Paw, having passed through all the grades
of the mission school, became a teacher. During a vacation she made a
visit to some of her heathen relations in a distant village. When the
school reopened she did not return to her duties. Several weeks had
passed when we learned that she had returned to her mother's village.
We sent word to her two or three times, urging her to return to the
school, though we could not compel her to do so. At last one of the
Christians went to her home to ascertain, if possible, why she had
become unfaithful to her duties as a Christian teacher. He brought
back word that something was the matter with Nan Paw. When he tried to
talk with her she would keep her hands covered, and try to conceal her
face behind her scarf. With a sad face he said, "I think our Nan Paw
_is a leper_."
Measures were taken at once to ascertain the facts. Alas it was too
true. In some way or other,--whether by heredity or contagion we could
not learn,--our dear Nan Paw had become a victim to that terrible
disease. How our hearts ached for her. Now we knew why she had not
returned to the school. While we were fearing that she was yielding
to heathen influences; and that she was making a poor return for all
the affection we had bestowed upon her, the dear girl's heart was
nearly breaking. She knew that she must bid farewell to her pleasant
life in the mission, and to her beloved associates. All aspirations
to support herself, to rise in her chosen work, to be respected, to
marry well--were utterly crushed. Henceforth she must be an outcast,
despised by her own people. Nothing before her but a living death, the
disease steadily growing upon her, until fingers and toes would waste
away, her whole body become covered with repulsive sores,--and no
power on earth could help her.
After a time arrangements were made to send her to the Leper Asylum at
Mandalay, over two hundred miles away. There, under the direction of
the missionary in charge Nan Paw became a teacher of others--afflicted
like herself. It would not have been strange had she utterly given
up to despair,--and sought release by death. But with wonderful
submission she gave herself to Christian work,--the only woman in the
asylum who could read and teach the Word of God.
Here is a translation of one of Nan Paw's letters to her sister:
"Sister, to you a letter do I send. By the kindness of God
I am come to the Home for Lepers, in Mandalay. Here am I
to teach His law, and in teaching it I am glad. For this
purpose, I am persuaded, has He brought me here. Whether I
am to remain all my life, or for a little while I know not.
My prayer is that God may quickly take me to Himself.
"Why He has brought this affliction upon me I do not know.
"When I consider (my condition) my heart is exceeding
sorrowful.
"The teacher has been very kind, and spent much money upon
me. The physician is good. Now in all things, my sister,
I place myself in the hand of God. In so far as I am able
I will strive to do His will. That I may be happy in
proclaiming His law, will you ever pray.
"Your affectionate sister,
"NAN PAW."
But after a year in the asylum Nan Paw longed to return to her native
village. This she was permitted to do. The disease grew worse and
worse.
Her people, backed by the village priest, then made a determined
effort to break down this poor girl's faith in Christ, and turn her
again to Buddhism. They knew how to cure the disease, they claimed,
and would cure it if she would worship the priest. Pressed beyond
endurance she at last in sheer despair prostrated herself before
the priest in the attitude of worship. They then gave her medicine
several months, the disease all the time growing upon her. Not only
the terrible leprosy of the body, but her soul was troubled with the
thought that by dishonouring her Lord she had become leprous with sin.
One day when they wanted her to join them in their heathen worship she
broke out in great indignation: "No I _never_ will worship like that
again. By your false and useless promises you made me deny my Lord.
But from this time I do it no more. I turn again to my own God, who
can at least save my soul." Again Nan Paw sent word that she wished to
go back to the asylum. She was an outcast in her own village, and in
her own mother's home. No one dared to see her. She cared to see no
one. At the Asylum she could be no unhappier. There all would be alike
unfortunate,--birds of a feather flock together.
I immediately arranged for her return. The native Christians
contributed generously to make up the required sum. As Nan Paw would
be a teacher, the superintendent kindly offered to provide special
quarters for her, apart from the other lepers. I sent word to Nan
Paw that I wished to see her before she went away, for I was soon to
return to America, and might never see her again; that I loved her as
a daughter, just the same as before her misfortune. But she sent back
the pathetic reply: "To dear teacher this brief letter I write. That
God may pour a blessing upon teacher and all the church members I am
praying.
"But I am not fit to be seen. To show my face I am ashamed. I do not
even meet my friends in the village. Therefore please excuse me. By
the half-past eight train I am going to Mandalay. There is with me a
very great sorrow. In no place is there any gladness. Only sorrow's
tears are ever falling. Now because teacher, by the favour of God, is
trying to help me, it is a great kindness. And teacher has written
favourably to Mandalay in order that I may go. That I may be set free
from my great sorrow, and that God may speedily gather to Himself my
soul, ever pray." But when circumstances made it necessary for her to
come to my house she overcame her fears, and in the dim light let me
talk with her, face to face. Again I assured her that "Sayah and Mama"
loved her the same as before; that her Saviour's love was just the
same; that by and by we would be together in heaven, and all be alike,
with all these earthly distresses left behind.
In the asylum Nan Paw is the only Christian woman among about
seventy-five of her own sex and race. Every day she conducts religious
exercises; and every Sunday she stands by the pulpit in the chapel
to set forth Christ as Saviour. After she had been there a few weeks
she sent back this letter: "Dearly beloved teacher. I reverently
greet you, and pray that God may pour His Spirit upon you and all
the Christians, to do His work. Especially, according to teacher's
efforts, in order to do the divine work in this place,--by God's
guidance I have come.
"There have now been three Sundays, and I have preached. The first
Sunday I explained Matt. 5:1-12. The second Sunday I explained John
3:1-21. The third Sunday I explained Acts 13:1-12,--about the ruler's
faith and God's power. God planned that I should be brought to this
place. Nevertheless, teacher,--though I seek ease of mind in this
world, I find only distress. Therefore pray that God may speedily take
my spirit. Because teacher,--according to the will of God, has helped
me, I praise God's mercy.
"Your daughter,
"MA NAN PAW."
In this child of the jungle, brought to Christ through the agency of
the mission school, stricken with a loathsome disease in the prime
of life; submissively bowing to the will of God, and striving to
show others how to escape from the leprosy of sin, we see the true
martyr-spirit. One day the Master will come and touch her with His
finger, saying "Be thou clean," and receive her into His Paradise
above.
XI
PECULIAR EXPERIENCES
It is well for the weary worker in a strange land that with the
austere and sublime, there is now and then a spicing of the ridiculous.
Happy the man who is so constituted as to appreciate the ridiculous
when it happens. A few such instances will serve to illustrate the
many-sidedness of missionary life. The first was when the writer
was a new missionary; otherwise it might not have happened. The
boarding-school occupied the ground floor of the mission bungalow, the
missionaries living above it. One day a great commotion was heard in
the schoolyard. Looking out of the window, the school children could
be seen scattering in all directions. The old saying "Every man for
himself, and the devil take the hindmost," was being enacted in a very
realistic manner.
Hard after the "hindmost" was a demoniac, a crazy Karen woman.
Evidently the children had been teasing her, but oh how they did
repent, as they ran! This terrible creature had seized a short bamboo,
and was rushing after them in insane fury. Poising it like a spear,
she hurled it endwise. Happily it missed its mark, or there would
have been a name or two to strike off the school roll. Advancing at
double-quick I got between the children and the enemy before she
could make another charge. Whether by faith or by force I must now
cast out a demon. Pointing to the gate, I said "_go_." She went not.
"_Go_," I repeated, and suiting the action to the word, started for
the gate with my incumbrance. Started,--only that and nothing more.
There seemed to be two opinions as to ways and means. I recalled a
remark--"The natives are coming to think for themselves." It must
be true. This particular native suddenly collapsed, sinking to the
ground, in a disgusting heap of obstinacy. Filthy beyond description,
hair matted and tangled, her whole person so covered with vermin that
she was scarcely responsible for her movements,--what to do with
her I was at a loss to know. It was a larger contract than had been
bargained for. Something must be done, or the missionary would lose
prestige with the school, and be subjected to repeated annoyances by
this crazy woman. Picking her up by main strength, we started again.
There was a short struggle at the corner of the house, where she
grasped a post with both arms, and held on with the tenacity of an
octopus. Disengaging her from the post, I thought to get up sufficient
momentum to carry her safely through the gate, but failed. Again
there was a tug of war. Again might made right, and our unsavoury
guest gave up the struggle. Casting back a wild but vanquished look,
she departed, never to come back.
We will pass to the "hot season" of our second year.
The missionaries of the station were spending a few weeks of it on a
mountain twenty miles from town. One mission building was in process
of construction,--work that demanded frequent inspection. To look
after this work I must make the round trip of forty miles once a week,
_while resting_. At one time, passing through a Karen village, the
pastor lent me his pony for the journey. On reaching town I threw the
lines to a schoolboy, who unsaddled the pony and turned it loose in
the compound. When ready to return to the mountains it was found that
the pony had walked out through an open gate, and was missing. Search
was made, but the pony was nowhere to be seen. While waiting for the
day to cool, the pony returned of his own accord, and came trotting
into the compound. This was luck indeed. The schoolboy quickly saddled
and bridled the pony, and away I went, anxious to make up the time I
had lost. Arriving at the Karen village I hitched the pony under the
owner's house. A grown-up daughter sitting on the stairs, modestly
inquired "Where is _our_ pony?" "What's the matter with _this_ pony?"
I asked. "_Our_ pony is a _male_," she said. The missionary took off
his hat. He scratched his head. It was dawning upon him that he was in
a pretty mess. If this is not the pony I borrowed, then where is he?
and whose pony have I stolen? And where shall I find the money to pay
for the other pony, if not recovered,--which is an even chance? how
shall I explain being in possession of this one, if called to account?
It did not take long for these questions to go through my mind. The
case called for prompt action, but my empty stomach was calling for
food. Mounting the stolen pony I proceeded up the mountain. Before
reaching camp, the Karen pastor's son came hurrying up the path,
riding on the lost pony. The pony had returned to his own village,
fifteen miles, afoot and alone. One problem was solved, and my mind
relieved to that extent. But in the eye of the law, should the law
find it out,--I was a criminal, for my explanation might or might not
be accepted. As the sun was going down, one of the larger schoolboys
who was at the camp,--started back to town with the other pony. I
gave him a letter addressed to the police, taking upon myself the
responsibility. The boy was not to trouble the police if the police
did not trouble him. Going by the most unfrequented roads, he arrived
in town before midnight. Turning the pony loose where first seen,
he hurried back to the mountain as fast as his legs would carry him,
reaching camp before sunrise. The missionary never knew whose pony he
had taken. It is doubtful whether the owner ever missed it.
At one time I was passing through an unfamiliar jungle accompanied by
a coolie, who also acted as guide. Darkness was coming on and good
time must be made, or we must spend the night in the jungle.
Coming to a place where two roads met, I chose the right hand road but
the guide insisted that the left hand road was the one to take. The
missionary reluctantly yielded to the coolie's better knowledge of the
jungle paths. We went on and on, but instead of coming out into open
country, the jungle grew more and more dense. We were lost. It was now
pitch dark, so that even the wrong road could no longer be followed.
There was nothing left but to spend the night where we were. Just as
we had made up our minds to this, I caught sight of a light, through
the trees. Groping our way ahead we discovered that we were near a
small Karen village. In response to our shouts two men came to meet
us, with guns and torches. They were Christian Karens, and glad to
find that the belated guest was a missionary, rather than a dacoit.
I soon made myself at home with the family and until a late hour
friendly conversation was kept up, through the medium of Burmese. The
children were brought to be inspected and _praised_. The baby, several
months old, had not been named. Wouldn't the teacher please give
the baby a name? It is quite customary for the Karens to ask their
missionaries to name the babies. To this particular missionary, whose
work was wholly among Burmans, it was a unique experience. He had a
dear relative in the home-land, named Julia. She should be honoured
with a namesake. "Please write it out, because we might forget it,"
they said. But there was not a scrap of paper in the house. Taking
the cover from one of my lunch cans the name was carefully scratched
on the inside with a pocket knife, and handed over to be laid up in
the family archives. At last the baby had a name, and the mother was
happy. Now it was time, and long past time, to get a little sleep. The
best mat was unrolled and spread in the open front, for the teacher.
In the coolie's baskets was a change of clothing, greatly needed after
the dust and perspiration of this long day,--but how could clothing be
changed?--Nor husband nor wife nor daughter would retire until they
should see how the teacher did it. The natives themselves usually
sleep in the same clothes they have worn all day. Is a change desired
they have only to put on an extra _longyi_--skirt, and let the inner
skirt fall to the floor. They have no idea how the white people are
dressed, until they see them undress. Such an event is too rare to be
missed. Husband, wife, and grown-up daughters will stand by, with all
the interest of a medical class in a dissecting room, while he takes
himself apart, picking up each piece as he lays it off, with comments
such as only the untutored child of the jungle would ever think of.
There was no help for it,--so, kicking off my shoes, I stretched out
as I was, with my saddle for a pillow. The family then retired, but
evidently feeling that they had not seen their money's worth.