obliged to wander off in the opposite direction, to throw the
villagers off the scent. Were his purpose known, he would have so
many of the native maidens at his heels, as to render the situation
somewhat embarrassing.
At break of day we were conducted through the jungle by a short cut
to the path we should have followed. Having no opportunity to revisit
that village, I never knew what became of little "U-lee."
Another experience was certainly interesting at the time, and might
have been the last, with no one to describe it. Returning alone from a
jungle tour, I reached a river at nine o'clock at night.
There was no moon, but the stars were shining. The opposite bank, high
and steep, could be dimly seen against the sky. During the floods of
the rainy season the bank had caved off, so that neither man nor beast
could ascend it. The natives had dug out a narrow path diagonally up
the bank. In the darkness this path could not be seen from the other
side. Two Burmans, who were fishing by torchlight, pointed out the
direction in which the path would be found. Taking a star to steer by,
I forced the pony into the river. Soon the water became too deep for
fording, and I felt the rather uncomfortable sensation of riding in
the saddle on a swimming pony. By daylight it would not have been so
serious, though the current was strong. In the darkness and alone, it
was not so pleasant to be in deep water, in mid-river.
The pony struggled bravely on until he reached the bank, and scrambled
up on a ledge of joint-clay. There was no path to be seen. The pony
had landed in a little cove where the perpendicular bank rose from
the water's edge. Back into the river he must go. This he refused to
do. Getting between the pony and the wall I pushed him off the ledge,
springing into the saddle as he went down. The pony was then headed up
stream, first swimming around a tree that had fallen into the river.
No path to be found in that direction. Returning down-stream, now
wading, now swimming--the path was found at last.
A thankful missionary sat down on the bank under the twinkling stars,
and wrung the water out of his clothes as best he could, before
continuing his journey.
The missionary candidate dreams of the time when he will break
the bread of life to the heathen. His dream will be realized, in
time,--but he will do a great many other things, of which he never
dreamed.
He may not know a plane from a plummet, yet there are houses to build,
and he must be both architect and superintendent. He must understand,
or learn to understand everything that pertains to the upkeep and
conduct of a large mission, with its many-sided work. He may not know
the use of the simplest remedies, but must be doctor for scores, and
perhaps hundreds of people. The writer had this to go through, and
some of his earlier patients still live to tell how much quicker they
might have recovered if the teacher had not treated them.
On one occasion a boy came for medicine. He looked very thin and weak.
He wanted medicine for fever and diarrhoea. The usual questions were
asked as to frequency of attacks, etc. When the medicine had been
prepared the missionary said: "You take one dose now, and another when
you retire----" when the boy spoke up, "Oh, no,--it is not for _me_,
it's for _mother_."
A pupil in the school had frequent fits. The Buddhist priest said that
an evil spirit had taken up his abode in the boy. His people came to
me, saying that the priest had tried to cast out the evil spirit, but
had failed. "Bring him to me," I said, "I will cast the spirit out."
He came, swallowed a strong vermifuge, and a dose of castor oil,
putting an end to his demoniacal antics.
One of the saddest times in the missionary's life is when he must
lay down his work, and take an imperatively needed change in the
home-land. That it will be no small loss to himself,--in the
inevitable sacrifice of household effects,--is the least of his
anxieties. But even in this experience he will find a silver lining
to his cloud, as he turns it over. A fellow-worker once unwittingly
helped us to a hearty laugh,--just when we were most needing such a
reaction.
Boxes had been packed, and were being duly labelled for the home
voyage. One piece, to be stowed in the hold of the steamer, had just
been marked with black paint. Our friend sat down on this box during
his brief call, none of us thinking of the fresh label. As he turned
to go we saw plainly stamped in reverse order across his white duck
pants--"NOT WANTED."
XII
OBSTACLES
To many minds there is great fascination in the thought of
self-sacrifice. Separation from native land and loved ones, to spend
one's life in a strange land, among uncivilized people savours of
renunciation more than human. The high plane of spirituality, already
attained, would be easily perpetuated.
Cut off from everything that had stood ready to prey upon one's
weaknesses, those weaknesses would no longer have to be guarded
against.
In a life devoted to ministering spiritual things to people who have
as yet no spiritual conceptions there would be reflex blessings
furnishing all the spiritual help one would need. In short, the
missionary is looked upon as belonging to a peculiar order of beings,
almost supernatural, dwelling in a sort of seventh heaven of immunity
from difficulties against which the ordinary soul must contend.
In calling attention to certain hindrances, it is to guard against
romantic notions. The depressing influence of life among a heathen
people hangs over one like a cloud.
The natives are so sodden in vice, so wedded to their idols, so
prejudiced against all foreign religions, so dull of head and slow of
heart to understand and believe. At times it may seem to be all sowing
and no reaping,--enough to dishearten the most faithful worker.
To "sit in the shade of a palm-tree, and break the bread of life
to hands eagerly outstretched to receive it"--is not an every-day
experience.
Sunday by Sunday the native Christians assemble in the chapel for
worship. The new missionary joins them. Here he will not be distressed
by the degradation of the heathen without. His heart will be glad as
he sees these people, rescued from idolatry, worshipping the true God.
He cannot understand what is said, but he can join in silent prayer.
It is intensely interesting, for a few Sundays. But after a time these
services, in which he is utterly unable to take other than a silent
part, will be found inadequate to meet his spiritual need.
It will be two years or more, before the missionary can join in all
parts of their worship. During this time he will often remember
with deep longing the privilege of his own church in the far away
home-land. In fact, worship with people of another race and tongue
never quite meets one's spiritual requirements. Constant outflow,
without corresponding inflow will run any pool dry. Then he will find
himself so overwhelmed with work, perplexed by financial cares,
hindered by innumerable interruptions that it will seem almost
impossible to find time to put forth special effort by reading,
meditation, and prayer, for the maintenance and upbuilding of his own
spiritual life.
One's very zeal for the kingdom of Christ may dwarf one's fellowship
with Christ. No matter how sound in theory, loyal in spirit, or
vigorous in action, there will come periods of reaction, though not
of discouragement. "Tired in, not of the work." The discouraged
missionary is yet to be found. "_He_ shall not fail, nor be
discouraged--till He has set judgment in the earth." Often enough to
keep him keyed up to his work he will be blessed with the privilege
of witnessing that which never loses its fascinating interest,--the
wonderful transformation of human souls, by the power of the Holy
Spirit.
Other matters however interesting, are but side-lights; other
experiences, however trying, are soon forgotten in the joy of seeing,
and in a measure being instrumental in the advancement of Christ's
kingdom.
With a heart warm with love for Christ; warm with love for souls;
full of zeal for soul winning; the missionary is safe. But all these
passions he _must bring with him_, rather than depending upon their
being developed in and by service in a foreign land.
Dr. Judson, after nineteen years in Burma, writing to a foreign
missionary association of young men said: "Beware of the greater
reaction which will take place after you have acquired the language,
and become fatigued and worn out with preaching the gospel to a
disobedient and gainsaying people. You will sometimes long for a quiet
retreat, where you can find a respite from the tug of toiling at
native work,--the incessant, intolerable friction of the missionary
grindstone. And Satan will sympathize with you in this matter, and he
will present some chapel of ease, in which to officiate in your native
tongue, some government situation, some professorship or editorship,
some literary or scientific pursuit, some supernumerary translation,
or, at some system of schools; anything, in a word, that will help
you, without much surrender of character, to slip out of real
missionary work.
"Such a temptation will form the crisis of your disease. If your
spiritual constitution can sustain it, you recover; if not, you die."
Missionary views have undergone some change since Judson's time,--for
instance,--"some system of schools" has come to be regarded as a
necessary and fruitful part of missionary work. Moreover, instead
of furnishing sweet release from the "friction of the missionary
grindstone," in the school its rubs are hardest. The great temptation
now is to abandon school work, to engage in "direct evangelistic work"
exclusively.
But the principal remains the same. Talk about the hardships
of pioneering; pioneering is a picnic as compared with the
year-in-and-year-out routine of school work. In boarding-schools there
is added to the all-day work the all-night anxiety concerning the
moral welfare of the pupils. Sick or well, strong or weak and weary,
the work is there, and must be accomplished. The dormitories are full
of boys and girls, and constant care is the price of discipline.
Nearly every day some are on the sick list, and must be visited, and
remedies administered under the missionary's own eye. In serious cases
the missionary becomes the watcher. I have in mind an instance when
the cholera broke out in a neighbouring mission school. The lady in
charge of the school took several girls into her own house, nursed
them day and night, in addition to her regular work, and brought
them safely through the crisis. But at what a cost. A few days later
a company of sorrow-stricken missionaries were gathered around her
grave, with difficulty restraining their emotion to conduct the burial
service.
A beloved sister had fallen, as truly a martyr as ever gave a life to
the Master's service.
The climate of Burma is peculiarly trying.
Arriving in November, as most all newcomers do, everything is seen
at its best. The rainy season has passed, leaving a placid smile on
the face of nature. The nights are cool. Friends will see that the
newcomer keeps in the shade from eleven o'clock in the morning until
five in the afternoon,--for a tropical sun can be depended on to do
his duty at that time of day, the year round. As the season advances
the nights become cooler, and towards morning a chilling fog sets in.
The preceding afternoon having been hot, one retires in a
perspiration, every pore open, finally dropping off to sleep--without
any covering, save his pajamas. With the coming of the fog there is a
sudden drop in temperature, and one is fortunate if he does not wake
up in a chill, and have the doctor for his first morning caller.
Persons with weak lungs find this the most trying season of the year.
But this is the "cold season," and the time when missionary work
out in the district must be vigorously pressed. Away through the
Karen, Shan, Chin, and Kachin hills, missionaries push their way. In
the plains other missionaries are doing their best to reach as many
villages as possible before the "hot season" sets in. Work which ought
to close early in March, if the missionary's health is considered,
is often continued until April. But this is done at the expense of
health, and shortens one's term of service. At least one month of
the hot season must be spent at some mountain resort to escape the
heat, secure needed rest, or for neglected literary work, if strength
permits. It is not in the power of flesh to work on twelve months in
the year, in the heated plains, without sacrificing strength that
might be more wisely conserved.
After a serious illness, I spent a few weeks alone in a mountain camp,
during my last hot season in Burma. Several great vultures kept me
company by roosting in a tree close by, every night for a week.
My rapid improvement did not furnish an encouraging prospect, and they
left. The fact that they had occupied the tree before I came to occupy
the camp, did not make their presence much less suggestive.
By the middle of May the "Southwest monsoon" sets in. Then for five
months it is rain, rain, rain. But though enough rain falls to
inundate a country less amply provided with natural drainage, the
awful heat continues. Clouds shut out the sun much of the time, but
the steamy heat is exceedingly enervating. Clothing and bedding are
clammy from the excessive dampness. Shoes taken off at night are
mouldy in the morning. The unavoidable ruin of shelves of fresh new
books from the home-land is enough to break one's heart, unless he has
grace to take joyfully the spoiling of his goods. But as a merciful
provision against allowing the mind to dwell on such misfortunes, the
"prickly heat" (_lichen tropicus_) with which one's body is covered,
will demand frequent attention. The rainfall varies in different parts
of the country.
In Maulmain and Sandoway the annual rainfall is about two hundred and
fifty inches. In Rangoon the precipitation is about two thirds of that
amount. Mandalay is in the dry belt where the rainfall is very light,
and irrigation is resorted to for cultivation. But still farther
north, at Bhamo, the rainfall is heavy.
The every-day display of wild beasts, reptiles, and insect life is
rather disappointing to the newcomer.
In the year 1902 only seventy-three people were reported as killed
by wild beasts, and 1,123 by snakes and poisonous insects. But we
find that 4,194 cattle were killed by tigers; 1,386 were killed by
leopards; six by bears, twenty-eight by wolves, and 4,986 by snakes.
More cattle were killed by snakes in Burma than in all the rest of
India. Doubtless many such deaths in remote places, are not reported
at all.
Under a certain Christian chapel when the ground was covered by a
flood, an average of six centipedes were counted on each post.
Other localities are equally favoured, but they are scattered about,
in piles of lumber, under old boxes, and wherever they can secrete
themselves, now and then one appearing in a corner closet or crawling
on the floor. On one occasion when about to take my family out for a
walk two scorpions must first be dispatched.
They were found on the inside of our little boy's jacket, taken from
a nail on the wall. Cobras and vipers sometimes find their way into
houses,--but this happens more frequently in India than in Burma.
These reptiles, though not often seen, are known to be about, so that
some degree of caution is in order at all times. The general practice
of elevating the house-floor several feet from the ground greatly
lessens the number of these unwelcome visitors.
Not even the newcomer complains of a scarcity of the far-famed white
ants. Should he fail to appreciate their numbers and powers, an
experience similar to that recorded in "The Bishop's Conversion" will
make him wish he had heeded the warnings of older residents.
Each queen is said to deposit about three million eggs a year. As they
do their housekeeping and rear their antlets underground, a tropical
sun making the hive a first-class incubator, the success of each
colony is well assured. During the day myriads of other kinds of ants
may be seen, but not a white ant shows his head.
Leave an old box on the ground over night, and in the morning
thousands of these destructive insects will be found underneath,
eating the bottom out of it. Some of the houses built by the early
missionaries, who had not learned the likes and dislikes of the
white ant, were destroyed in a few years. But a house made wholly
of ant-proof timber does not insure one against their ravages.
Under cover of the darkness they send out their spies. The house is
searched from foundation to garret. They make careful note of the
location of deal-boxes, book-shelves and other tempting articles,
smack their lips, and return to give their report. The floor of nearly
all residences is ten feet or more above the ground, the lower part
being left unoccupied. The ants, directed by their engineers, select
a post, and rapidly build a covered way, about the size of half a
split lead-pencil, up its side. Sand, made sticky by glue from their
mouths, is the material used. Reaching the floor the path is continued
along a crack in the floor, finally coming out under or behind the
article selected for destruction. Unless something wanted leads to
their discovery, their work will go on until chest and contents are
utterly ruined. Returning from a three weeks' absence, I found several
of my choicest books riddled by these pests. In place of valuable
marginal notes that could not be restored was a paste of sand. Such
an experience is not, at first flush, conducive to spirituality.
Rather it makes one sigh for a more expressive vocabulary, adapted to
his profession. While superintending the work of demolishing an old
mission house five heavy timbers fell all at once, on as many sides of
me. These timbers appeared to be securely fastened, but white ants had
eaten away the wood so that nails and bolts had no hold. The building
had been condemned as unsafe over and over, but for want of other
shelter had been occupied by a missionary family until the day before.
It was little less than a miracle that the heavy roof had not crushed
down over their heads.
The most dreaded diseases are cholera and fever.
In the first Burmese war seventy-two per cent. of the British
troops died, only five per cent. being killed in action. After
the annexation, railroad and steamship companies revolutionized
transportation, substantial barracks and bungalows have taken the
place of bamboo-and-thatch shanties, for the accommodations of
Europeans. Improved sanitary arrangements in the towns have greatly
decreased the mortality among natives. Compulsory vaccination is
stamping out smallpox. Each large town has its hospital and civil
surgeon. In six or eight different places medical missionaries are
stationed.
Many improvements have been made since the time of Judson,--but the
climate has not changed. As organized mission-work develops, the
strain on the missionary increases. To the "care of all the churches"
the mission schools have been added. Work enough for four falls upon
one. Breakdowns are inevitable. Careful inquiry has established the
fact that the average term of missionary service is considerably
longer than that of Europeans in civil, military or mercantile
pursuits, though the missionary lives by far the more strenuous life.
If it is desirable that the missionary should render a long life of
service, this extension of each term beyond the limit of his strength
is very poor economy in the society which he represents. But in the
majority of cases the mistake is made by the missionary himself. Body
and soul he is wedded to his work. There never comes a time when he
is not making some special effort, that he shrinks from entrusting
to another,--for the advancement of the kingdom. If another is not
available to take up the work he will almost die at his post rather
than leave his people "as sheep having no shepherd." The remedy is
in the hands of God's people in the home-land. Had he not learned
to possess his soul in patience the missionary might feel disturbed
by unfriendly criticisms directed against missionaries and their
methods by that worldly-wise individual known as the "globe-trotter."
Entertained at the missionary's home, and in much better style than
the missionary can afford or indulges except on such occasions, he
sits in the best room, and by the light of the only table lamp in
the house dashes off an article on "Missionary Luxury." He travels
three thousand miles, and visits fifty stations in three weeks, then
goes home to pose as an authority on missionary methods, life in the
tropics, etc. It is simply incredible what a variety of misconceptions
one can pick up in three weeks in a strange land. Representatives from
churches and societies in the home-land are gladly welcomed, if they
purpose to remain long enough to form correct views of the situation.
It takes the missionaries themselves at least two years to form such
views.
Not long ago a noted Christian worker visited Burma. He was very
earnest in his desire to see much in a little time, and yet get at the
real heart of things. To further his desires two missionaries arranged
a jungle trip, that the visitor might see the people in their native
haunts. The last stage of the journey must be made by ox-cart. As
they were loading up for the start he turned and said, "Now brethren,
you know,--I want _impressions_." Then again, more emphatically as
he stepped in front of the wheel to put a bundle on the cart--"You
understand now,--I _want impressions_." The off-ox seemed to
sympathize with him, for he gave him an impression then and there,--on
the right knee-cap. Then another on the left knee-cap. In great pain
the young enthusiast staggered to a log and sat down. Helped into the
cart, he rode the rest of the journey. The lameness lasted him several
days. Doubtless the memory of these first impressions will last much
longer.
The visitor will learn more in three days of Burma fever than in an
entire cool season. True, he will have sincere sympathy, and the best
attention possible. But everybody knows that if true conceptions
are to be gained, to be disseminated in the home-land, it is a good
investment.
Visitors, like new missionaries, will not be guided by the advice of
the more experienced. That disasters are not more frequent is largely
due to the fact that Burma is visited when the climate is at its best.
An exception to the rule was the visit of a lady who had for many
years been actively interested in foreign missions. Warnings as to
the deadly effects of a tropical sun, and the danger of contracting
fever from undue exposure had no influence. Repeated cautions that
the head must be protected with the customary "sola tope" in place
of the black straw hat were disregarded. Quinine, the universal and
only effective remedy in first symptoms of malaria, was rejected.
She was "not subject" to these things. In short, the missionaries
were unnecessarily cautious in matters of health. Malaria changed to
settled fever, and went beyond the power of the best medical skill and
nursing to control.
This noble worker, who had served long and well here below, and might
perhaps have served yet longer, went to a happier service above.
Notwithstanding the many disasters, experience still remains the only
teacher whose voice commands attention.
To meet every obstacle and trying experience the consecrated worker
girds up his loins, strong in the consciousness of the fact that he
is an "Ambassador for Christ" the highest office in the gift of the
King of Kings. His very obstacles may become stepping-stones to higher
attainments.
XIII
WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT
Adequately to answer the question, at any given time, What hath God
wrought?--is beyond the power of short-sighted human comprehension.