Let us suppose that you and I are of a company awaiting in Bangkok the

coming of the Laos boats. For many days we have been making provision

for our journey as well as enjoying the society of dear friends, when

at last one evening the announcement is made, “The boats are here!”

With one accord we rush to the river-bank in time to see them filing

into place for mooring in front of the missionary compound. How

topheavy they look, reminding us of old-fashioned stage-coaches! The

dusky boatmen look at us with smiling faces as we greet them with

“_Subirú?_” (“Are you well?”), and respond with a hearty “_Subi?

subi?_” (“Well? well?”), returning the question to us. We next ask,

“How many days since you left Cheung Mai?” Ten days, or fifteen, or

twenty may be the reply, for you must understand it is easier to get

from Cheung Mai to Bangkok than from here to Cheung Mai. How is that?

Well, their quick trip indicates a good stage of water, and they have

been able to shoot the rapids and to row most of the way in the

smoother waters. In going up the poling in the upper river is slow

work, and the boats have to be dragged by ropes over the rapids, which

consumes both time and strength, for the boatmen have to rest after

passing the most difficult (_i. e._ high and swift). We must also take

into consideration the difference of going with the current and

against it.

By the time we have finished this little talk the boats have been tied

to their moorings and the boatmen are sitting in squat-fashion on the

decks, resting before their preparations for supper and for the night.

As we bid them “Good-evening” our thoughts are busy with the morrow,

when we shall begin to arrange our boats for the trip northward. At

dawn we are awake, and find the atmosphere cool even to chilliness, as

it always is in the winter months. The thermometer, we find, stands at

60° (at Cheung Mai at this season it is often as low as 54°). The cool

season is best suited to traveling in boats, and it is important that

we get off at its beginning. In the hot season, March and April, the

journey will be intolerable, and the river being then very low, it

would be impossible to get the larger boats through the shallow water.

In the rainy season, from May till October, you can imagine what it

would be to live in a close boat with a daily visitation of rain,

besides the risk to health from constant dampness and exposure to

malaria, which is rifest at that season. The best time for the journey

is the cool season, when the skies are without a cloud――from the

middle of November till February――and the air is cool and pure. The

weather then is like October in our Middle States, warm throughout the

day with cool nights and mornings. You will then need the blankets and

quilts provided by the dear home friends, and your warm wraps and

shawls will be in use most of the way.

As our goods and provisions are transferred to the boats, we proceed

to their arrangement in the narrow spaces allotted. You will not think

our appointments very luxurious, yet we can make our cabin neat and

home-like by hanging curtains at the windows, and our mattresses,

which are laid in a corner on the floor, we can fold together and

cover with a chintz spread, thus economizing space and improvising a

sofa. On the shelf above we shall place a few books, toilet articles

and flowers and ferns as we can get them. A grass mat upon the floor

and two or three camp-chairs, and the arrangements are complete, the

goods in mid-deck being tidily and compactly settled, with trunks and

boxes left accessible and all the articles for “below decks” being

nicely stored.

The cheery “All ready!” is given, and we launch out into the river.

The exit is very quiet. As our crafts are pulled out to mid-stream the

splash of the long oars as they fall and rise is the only signal of

our outgoing. We select the time of departure at “flood-tide,” when

the waters from the Gulf of Siam come up to start us on our way. But

in a few hours we are beyond this tidal wave――yes, and far beyond the

dear friends we left standing on the bank of the river. Bangkok is

left in the distance, with its missionary homes and chapels, its

palaces, huts and great temples, its shipping, steamers and

market-boats, its bazaars and merchant-houses and its thronging,

restless population.

The river at this stage of our journey is wide and even with its

banks, while the heavy volume of water is rippling and turbid. As we

pass the suburbs and get farther into the country the signs of human

life begin to disappear. Mile after mile we pass between the low green

banks in uninhabited seclusion and surrounded on all sides by

luxuriant and gorgeous vegetation――forest trees and bushes of

undergrowth in countless varieties, and conspicuous among them the

bamboo, cocoanut and palm. Every bend brings a repetition of the same

scene, without the sight of a house or road or farm, until we reach

one of the many villages that are scattered at distances all the way

to Rahang, our halfway station.

And now what of boat-life and our Laos crew? The captain, with the

rudder-handle and his stool, occupies one entire side of our cabin.

The tiller, entering aft of the cabin between the floor and wall,

passes over its whole length to the fore side, where it reaches the

hand of the pilot as he sits on a high stool. This arrangement

trammels our movements on that side, as of necessity we must keep out

of the way. The man himself, with the characteristics of his race, is

polite, simple-hearted and unobtrusive. The men at the bow who, with

strong arms are propelling the boat, soon win our esteem by their

patient faithfulness. The happier it will be, however, if some of our

native Christians are of the company. Yet even the untaught Laos have

a kindness of nature and a desire to please and oblige which, with

their quiet, gentle ways, gain our interest and respect. To find the

noble qualities of friendliness, kindness and gratitude amongst a

people so morally degraded may seem contradictory, but it remains a

fact.

The leisure hours in the boat we occupy in the study of the language,

Bible-reading, etc. As meal-time approaches we are on the lookout for

a pleasant, shady stopping-place, and as soon as the boat reaches

shore we are out, and at once begin culinary operations. The boatmen

gather driftwood, which is abundant along the banks, and soon have two

fires lighted. We detail one or two men to assist us, while the others

prepare their own food, which has been selected and laid away, as ours

has been, in Bangkok before starting. The Laos men are more or less

accustomed to assist in cooking when at home, and this training is a

great convenience to themselves and to us in this long river-journey.

If our methods of preparing a meal are different, a much sharper

contrast is drawn as we sit down in two companies on the river-shore

to eat our food. The Laos squat around their baskets of boiled or

steamed rice and bowls of peppery curry made of chicken or fish. This,

with bowls of vegetables and fruit lying around loose, is laid on the

bare sand or deck as the case may be. No knives or forks are used, but

we may see wooden spoons, with which they dip up the savory vegetable

curry from the general dish, throwing back their heads as they put it

into their mouths. In fact, they eat most of their food in this

manner.

Supper is the only meal we can take leisurely, as we do not prepare it

till landed for the night. At breakfast and dinner we consume but

little over an hour in preparing and eating. By management we can have

breakfast and dinner under preparation when the boat stops, so as to

make as little delay as possible. All having eaten and the dishes

being washed and laid away, we resume our course.

As we pass the different towns and villages we stop as necessity

requires to replenish our larder in the line of rice, vegetables,

fruit, fish or chickens. Flour, coffee, tea, sugar, etc. we provided

in Bangkok for the whole trip. The flour comes from America. When we

bake bread it is always in the evening. We got leaven from the friends

in Bangkok, and hold it in safe-keeping, lest we run short midway in

our journey. When the boat stops for the night we have our loaves

already risen in the pans, and our first care is a fire for its

immediate baking.

The houses in these towns are scattered without regularity of streets

or squares. Slight bamboo fences mark the boundaries of each house and

garden. The enclosed space may be large, as in case of a nobleman’s

residence, or very small or maybe none at all in that of a poor

peasant. The houses are built of bamboo, and are raised on posts. The

roofs are covered with attap (a broad-leaved grass resembling blades

of corn). Costlier and larger houses are made of teak-wood, raised

also on posts and the roofs covered with tiles. Not a brick house or a

chimney is to be seen anywhere. At a distance the appearance of a town

is strongly suggestive of barns and haystacks.

In contrast with these rude domiciles we find in the vicinity of every

town large and elaborately finished temples. Upon them the wealth and

taste of the community are concentrated. They are built of brick and

plastered with white cement, which gleams like marble through the

heavy, dark foliage of the trees in the temple-grounds. Wood-carvings

and gold-leaf and mosaics of colored glasses or isinglass wrought into

many devices decorate the front entrance and doorway. Standing apart,

they have a domain of their own. Their broad grounds are enclosed by a

brick fence covered with white cement. In proximity to the temple are

the numerous little houses of the priests, whom we can see, at all

hours and in all places, marching about in dress of bright yellow and

with bald, shaven heads.

The shady seclusion of these grounds, with the images of Buddha

sitting in darkness within the temple, and it being also the abode of

the priesthood, make it a place of great sanctity and veneration to

these superstitious people.

The same uniformity presents itself in every hamlet and town in our

route. Between these places miles and miles of solitary silence

stretch away, until we could readily imagine that all of human kind

had forsaken the earth, and that we, by some strange destiny, were

left in this big “basket of bulrushes” to go on and on interminably.

What wonder, then, that the sight of a town or a passing boat are

pleasant interruptions on this monotonous highway?

Reaching Nakawn Soowun (_i. e._ “City of Heaven”), a provincial

capital ten days’ journey below Rahang, we find it situated at the

junction of two branches of the river. Our route leads us into the

left or north-west branch. Here the current is so swift that it

becomes necessary to abandon the oars and resort to the long poles

(iron-pronged at the end) to push the boat through the seething

waters. All the dexterity and acuteness of the polesmen and pilot are

put to the test now in keeping within the channel and to prevent our

being cast upon a sandbar. The bed of the river is filled with masses

of sand, which are in a state of perpetual change. Whirling and

careering and finding no permanent lodgment, it is constantly

displacing the channel, while we in our pursuit of it often miss it by

a half space of the boat, one side of which is lying on a sand-drift,

and at the other there may be the depth of twelve or fourteen feet of

water. In pushing off, the current carries us down stream, and as we

recover our distance again we think of the problem of the frog in the

well, and _our_ question is: If in one hour we gain _three_ miles and

lose _one_, _when_ shall we reach Rahang?

However, as “perseverance conquers all things,” we make our way

through this war of waters (passing several towns on our way) more or

less difficult of navigation, until we reach Rahang, where we find the

river divided into several channels by little islands. The banks are

high and the situation is beautiful for a city, with its

mountain-range and its two sentinel mountains, one east, the other

west, of the town.

Rahang marks the terminus of one-half our journey, and is the most

northern of Siamese towns. By some it is reckoned as the most southern

Laos town.

Its officials are in general Siamese, although its population is mixed

and is estimated at fifteen thousand. Here we see Laos, Siamese,

Chinese, Burmese, Peguans, Karens, etc. At a glance you will see the

importance of its occupation as a missionary centre. About two years

ago Dr. McGilvary labored alone here for many months. He was kindly

received and much encouraged in his work. As its fruit some were led

to the Saviour, and a permanent mission-station is to be established

here during the coming year.

After two or three days’ sojourn, spent in making preparation for the

last part of our journey, we set forth again, and now to enter the

border of Laos.

A few miles north of Rahang the river branches once more. We follow

the north-west fork, called the Maping. The other branch (Mawang)

leads to the province of Lakawn, where is one of our Laos churches.

Although the country in this vicinity is comparatively level, yet the

high banks and the views of distant mountain-ranges or hills diversify

the scenery, which has not the dull monotony of the lower Menam――a

pleasing change, and one that beguiles our time and attention as the

boats are slowly making their way toward the rapids; and seven or

eight days’ “poling” bring us to the entrance of the ravine at their

foot.

After weeks of voyaging on a broad river and through a flat country,

with a wide horizon always encircling us, how anomalous to be

confronted by this rocky pass, through which we must thread our way up

forty rapids to the equally level territory of Laos beyond it! As we

enter the gorge from the bright sunlight a sombre shade closes over

us, even “the shadow of a great rock in a _weary land_.” Wild and

grand beyond description are these cañons and falls of the Maping

River, and far exceeding any portrayal are the lofty, majestic

mountains through which the river cuts its way.

No scientific survey has ever been made of the incline of the river,

neither accurate measurement of the height of its mountains.

Missionaries have approximated the altitude of some of the cliffs that

border the river at from eight hundred to fifteen hundred feet. The

geology and flora of this region remain unclassified. In silent beauty

they await the coming of one who may some day unlock their secrets.

It occupies from one to two weeks in getting through the rapids. Some

are so difficult of ascent as to require many hours for its

accomplishment, while others can be gotten over in less than half an

hour. By means of ropes and pulleys the men, with the “Heave-O” cry

that is heard the world over, pull and push the boat upward through

the gushing waters to the top of the fall, where we glide on in

smoother ease――several miles, it may be――until a warning roar in the

distance announces the approach to another rapid.

The river is very winding in its course and variable in breadth――narrow

here, where perpendicular walls of granite rise sheer out of the water

to prodigious heights, shutting us in with heavy shadows and deep

solitude; wider there, where the rocks recede and stand apart, leaving

valleys between, where many a boulder, large and small, in “rank

confusion” lies, and where at the river’s edge are spaces of white

sandy beach. Here, where we halt for the night, a spacious ampitheatre

encloses us apart from all of earth. Encompassed by the “everlasting

hills” and under the silent stars, we sing our evening song of praise

and worship “Him who is from everlasting to everlasting.”

When the morning sunlight sends us on our way again, fresh revelations

of beauty meet our wondering eyes――cliffs whose precipitous sides have

been under the frescoing pencil of the sun and rain for a thousand

years; castellated rocks with great columns of stalactites pendent on

the gray walls; caves, crags and ravines with crystal cascades singing

their solemn tune in lonely places. Nor is there destitution of

vegetable life. In beautiful relief we find the rich green so peculiar

to the tropics spread everywhere amongst this rugged scenery――trees,

bushes, flowers, vines, ferns and mosses.

At the head of the rapids, and soon after passing out of the

mountains, we get our first sight of a Laos village; and cheerful it

is to come again amongst the habitations of men. During our two weeks’

transit from this point to Cheung Mai we find a country having the

same general features as that below the falls, with the exception of

higher banks along the river; but here we have another type of people,

entirely different in dress and _address_ from those of the lower

Menam. In common with the Siamese, they adhere to the Buddhist faith,

adding also spirit-worship. They have the same habit of betel-chewing

and the same forms of superstition, yet are a distinct race in customs

and modes peculiar to themselves.

Many sights of exclusively new character are continuously meeting us

too. The first that strikes the attention is the Laos system of

waterwheels, used for the irrigation of rice-fields and gardens. They

are made of bamboo, and are about twenty feet in diameter, and so

adjusted as to be turned by the current of the river, their rims being

furnished with small bamboo troughs which dip up the water as the

wheel turns down, and is emptied as the wheel turns up into a large

trough on the bank, and thence conveyed away by bamboo gutters. We see

these wheels at every turn (right and left side) of the river, yet

never lose interest in the rude machinery nor in the constant dipping

and emptying process.

Still proceeding northward, we come amongst the cucumber-gardens which

are planted on the broad sandbars. The Laos women, taking advantage of

the low water at this season, occupy in free possession every

available spot. The morning and evening they give to the cultivation

of these sandy gardens, in which they raise cucumbers, beans and sweet

potatoes. A fascinating sight it is to see these islands of “living

green” scattered up and down the bed of the river.

But what a spectacle we have in the long lines of little cows and

oxen, each laden with baskets of rice which they are carrying from the

harvest-fields! Two long baskets, holding perhaps a bushel, are joined

by a yoke which rests on the animal’s back, while the baskets hang at

its sides in the fashion of saddle-bags. In one train we may see

twenty, forty or one hundred, and they walk single file. The leader

has great preeminence in having its face masked with an embroidery of

shellwork, while over its head stream the gay feathers of the peacock,

and a string of bells (resembling sleigh-bells) is hung around its

neck. Many of the others also have bells, and what a merry sound they

make as they pass along on the banks above us! This is the only way

the Laos utilize the cow, for they abhor milk and butter.

At Rahang we saw elephants in limited numbers, but here we see them in

scores. This is literally true in the case of a prince’s retinue, when

we see from forty to sixty or more in one procession. They are in

universal use as beasts of burden.

See those large buffaloes that stand at the edge of the water! They

have short and thin hair――in some pinkish in color, in others gray. To

cool themselves and to escape the biting insects they walk into the

river and lie down, and are so completely submerged that not a spot of

them is visible but the nose. Sometimes we see them standing in the

water and birds hopping along their backs or perching between the huge

horns. The buffalo manifests no annoyance, and the birds have it all

their own way. They are old and familiar friends. These buffaloes are

used in ploughing, and they also tread out the rice.

As it is now toward the close of the dry season, we frequently meet

men and women fording the river, who in passing near our boat give the

salutation of _Pi n’i tua?_――_i. e._ “Going where? coming from where?”

It is a customary greeting, and carries no impertinence in it. We have

answered this question from prince and peasant many a time during our

journey, and it is rather a suggestive one, as in our reply we add

_why_ we come.

And here, walking about in the river, are the fishermen, busy by night

and by day in their eager pursuits. At any hour of the night when we

awaken we see their torchlights flashing hither and thither up and

down the river.

So onward we go, seeing strange new sights and customs, passing

village after village, exchanging greetings with the people; then

through long miles of loneliness, where we are hedged in by trees and

thickets of perennial green; yet with prow ever to the north (Cheung

Mai the lodestone) we are steadily and surely nearing our goal.

And now, as we round this bend, the plain of Cheung Mai and the grand

old mountains in the north-west come into full view. (The walled city,

a mile distant to the westward, is not in the line of vision.)

As we move slowly up the river we see on the left bank an old temple

overshadowed by old trees heavy with foliage. On the bank stand a

number of Buddhist priests dressed in their yellow robes, who have

come out of their little houses near the temple to look at the passing

boats. The plain on both sides of the river and to the very banks

abound in bamboo trees, as well as palm, cocoanut and an occasional

banyan tree, which makes a large circumference of shade. In amongst

the trees toward the river are the low bamboo huts of the natives,

with here and there a more pretentious house built of teak-wood and

roofed with tiles; a bridge spans the river. Just beyond the bridge

(north) and on the west side we catch a view of Dr. Cheek’s compound,

and below it on the east side are the mission premises. Ah! how long

we are in going over that last half mile!

Getting nearer, we see the waiting company on the bank and can feel

the welcome that is all about us. Drawing up to the steps at the

landing, how gladly we leave the boats to meet the cordial reception

of the missionaries and native friends who stand with outstretched

hands to receive us! Then, entering our new home, it is with

thanksgiving and joy that the Master has appointed our service for him

amongst the Laos.

CHAPTER XXIV.

_RECOLLECTIONS OF CHEUNG MAI._

My friends often say to me, “Tell us something about Laos, where you

lived when a child.” Listen, then, to a few of the things I remember

about Cheung Mai, the people who live in it and some of their customs.

The province of Cheung Mai is the largest of the six Laos kingdoms,

and is tributary to Siam. As no census is taken amongst this people,

the population cannot be accurately stated, but it is supposed by some

of the missionaries to be about eighty thousand. On the map which

accompanies this book you will see that the capital city, Cheung Mai,

is in latitude 18° 48´ north, and on the west branch of the Menam

River; but the map will not tell you that its suburbs extend for some

distance up and down each side of the river. In America the cities

have no walls around them, but, like most Eastern cities, Cheung Mai

is surrounded by high and thick brick walls, which in many places,

however, have gone to ruin. When there is a rumor of war the king

issues a decree that every man shall bring a teak log to repair the

breaches in the wall. It was on the pretext that our two Laos

Christians had disobeyed this command that they were arrested and so

cruelly put to death.

You may be interested in what Sir Robert Schomburg says about the

streets of Cheung Mai: “The streets of this city have been

(originally) laid out at right angles. Time, it seems, has worked

changes with regard to their regularity; nevertheless, I have not seen

any other Siamese city laid out apparently so regularly at its

foundation as Cheung Mai appears to have been.” If you could walk

about the streets of the city you would see, instead of our Christian

churches, very many _wats_, or temples, and the _prachadees_ which

seem peculiar to Cheung Mai. Again we quote Schomburg: “‘We pray to

Guadama (or Buddh) on passing a _prachadee_,’ said a Laos. ‘They were

built in memory of him and his divine acts, and some of his doctrines

are written on tablets.’ These remarkable towerlets are only cased

with brickwork and filled up with soil. They are plastered on the

outside, are of pyramidal shape and terminate at the summit in a

sharp-pointed spire.” Most of them are now in a state of decay, and

are covered with vines and other vegetation. You would see no floating

houses in Cheung Mai, as in Bangkok. The houses in the city are built

far enough apart to afford space for the cultivation of flowers, for

which the Laos have a great fondness. If the space is not large

enough, they must still have flowers, so they cultivate house-plants.

As temples are built of brick, it would “offend the spirits” to use

brick for dwelling-houses, and teak-wood or bamboo is used instead.

The bamboo houses of the Laos peasantry are roofed with thatch, the

walls are made of bamboo matting and the floor of bamboo reeds, cut

open so as to lie flat on the sills. Not a nail is used in such a

house, but everything is secured with bamboo or ratan withes. Teak is

the most durable wood we have, the houses built of it being the most

substantial. These houses are covered with burnt tiles, and are more

securely and closely built than the bamboo houses. All houses are

built on posts several feet from the ground, and the teak houses have

verandas, while the bamboo houses have open courts. The king has,

however, built a new palace, and as it is a distant imitation of

foreign houses which he has seen in Bangkok, it is in great advance of

all others in Cheung Mai.

If a stranger should enter the eastern gate in the morning, his

attention would be attracted by a large concourse of women, who seem

to be dressed alike, as all wear skirts with horizontal stripes and

have their shining black hair combed straight back and looped into a

beautiful knot, which needs no pin to secure it. In this market very

few men are to be seen; the women dress as do the Siamese men. Each

market-woman carries everything in two large neat baskets, which are

suspended from each end of a long, flat, flexible bamboo stick which

lies on her shoulder. Some of these women are seated on mats, with

market-baskets at their sides, while others are hurrying hither and

thither. On the right side of the street is a woman in whose baskets

are vegetables, for which she wishes salt in exchange. Over on the

other side of the street is a woman with rice to sell, but she prefers

silver. Silver is superseding salt as a medium of exchange. By her

side is another woman with bouquets of flowers, for which she finds a

ready sale; the purchasers carefully wrap them in banana-leaves, and

after sprinkling a little water over them deposit them in a cool place

until evening. Late in the afternoon the owner, if a lady, will appear

with the flowers tastefully arranged in her hair, while a gentleman

would wear his blossom in a hole in the lobe of his ear.

Unless the market-women have been successful in their business they do

not leave the market until the increasing heat of the sun reminds them

that it is time to retrace their steps homeward. Should you wish to

accompany one of these women home, she would make you heartily

welcome. On reaching the house you would first ascend several steps to

the front veranda, which is usually, but not always, covered. From

this veranda you would enter the front room or open court, where the

daughter of the house spreads a clean mat on the floor for you and

gives you a large three-cornered pillow on which you may rest one of

your elbows. As a mark of hospitality a tray or box of betel-nut and

seri-leaf will be set before you, and the invitation given to help

yourself. Though you decline, you will be interested in watching those

who may be seated beside you preparing their quid. The seri- or

betel-leaf is taken first, and its tip overlaid with a minute quantity

of slaked lime; then a pinch of finely-cut tobacco, a piece of cutch

the size of a pea and the fourth of a dried areca-nut are wrapped in

the seri-leaf, completing the mixture, which is chewed with evident

enjoyment. To foreigners this is a very offensive custom, but so

universal is it among both old and young that a box of these

ingredients is carried with them in a bag suspended from the

shoulders.

Should a member of the family be sick, you might be invited nominally

to see her, but you may be assured that you would have more occasion

to use your ears than your eyes, for the only window in the room is a

round hole about three inches in diameter and several feet from the

floor. The mattress is placed on the floor and surrounded by thick

mosquito-netting, through which you would think it scarcely possible

to breathe.

In the kitchen the stove consists of a wooden frame about four feet

square and six inches high, filled with earth or sand. On this are

placed three stones or bricks as rests for the pots, and between them

the fire is kindled. As there is neither pipe nor chimney, the smoke

is suffered to make its escape through openings as best it may, and if

it is a bamboo house there is little difficulty. In the dry season

cooking is often done in the yard.

Setting the table is not a laborious process. The table is round,

about a foot and a half in diameter and six inches high. When

meal-time arrives the table is taken down from its shelf and placed on

the floor, and by it the tall, slender basket of steamed glutinous

rice. On the table is a bowl of curry, hot with pepper and other

spices, a dish of pickled fish and some vegetables and fruit. Every

member of the family dips his rice into the common bowl of curry; but

if any is very fastidious he may have a dish of his own, but when he

has finished his meal, in order to avoid being considered extremely

lazy, he must wash his own dish.

The women are not kept in bondage, as in China or India, but are a

great power in the land; and the present queen has virtually the reins

of government in her own hands, although her husband is the nominal

head. She and her husband have always been friendly to the mission,

and although the last persecution occurred since they came to the

throne, it was carried on through the influence and power of the

second king.

As the queen walks out a maid walks behind, carrying over Her Majesty

a large lined and fringed silk umbrella with silvered handle, which

may be about six or eight feet long. Behind this maid is another,

carrying a gold betel-nut box, while dozens of others follow her, all

walking in single file, for two persons are never seen walking side by

side. The queen has several times visited the missionaries in their

homes. While she and the first maids-of-honor are quietly talking in a

lady-like manner in the parlor, her more inquisitive servants are

making a thorough examination of the house and what are, to them, its

curious and strange contents. This annoyance does not arise from

ignorance or lack of refinement of feeling among the people, but

because there are about this court, as well as about every other

court, undesirable satellites.

Considering their disadvantages, the Laos are a remarkably refined

race, as is shown by many of their customs. Should a person be telling

another of the stream which he had crossed, and wished to say it was

ankle-deep, as he would feel a delicacy in referring to his person,

his expression would be, “I beg your pardon, but the water was

ankle-deep.” If one wished to reach anything above another’s head, he

would beg the latter’s pardon before raising his hand. A great and

passionate love for flowers and music also indicates a delicacy of

feeling. Although, before missionaries went there, the women did not

know how to read, they were always trained to be useful in their

homes, and a Laos girl who does not know how to weave her own dress is

considered as ignorant as a girl in this country who does not know how

to read.

During the season of rice-planting and harvesting every member of the

family works in the fields, and the baby is left at home under the

care of the next oldest child. The children are thus early taught

self-dependence, and a boy who here would be thought scarcely able to

care for himself is expected, after the planting season, to take care

of the buffaloes in the fields all day long. The Laos use buffaloes

for ploughing, oxen for carrying rice, elephants for bearing other

burdens and ponies for pleasure riding; in which latter only the

gentlemen indulge, the ladies being debarred that pleasure. The motion

of the elephant, which is the chief beast of burden, is a swaying one,

but there is as much difference in the gait of elephants as in the

gait of horses, and those with an easy gait always command very high

prices. The top of a howdah, or elephant’s saddle, is very much like

that of a buggy, and the seat is not unlike the buggy-seat; the

difference being that there is a railing in front which extends a

third of the way across from each side, leaving an opening in the

centre. The person who is so fortunate as to secure the middle seat is

as comfortable as though seated in a chair, having the elephant’s back

as a footstool, but those sitting on either side have to assume the

position taken when seated on the floor. The howdahs for carrying

burdens have no coverings.

It is exceedingly interesting to watch the elephants when drawing logs

from the river. The teak logs are floated down from the forests, and

the elephants haul them on to land. An elephant is chained to a log,

which he drags to its destination, and after he is unchained he

quietly picks up his chain and walks to the river again. After

bringing up the logs he is very careful that they shall lie entirely

even, and if any end projects he pushes it with his tusks until his

trained eye can see no fault. The air with which he moves back and

forth from the river is very amusing; he seems to say, “I understand

my business.” The baby-elephant is a most mischievous creature, and is

the horror of market-women, because he often insists upon meddling

with the contents of their baskets.

The holiday which most interests the missionaries’ children is the New

Year, when all, and especially the young, give themselves up to a

peculiar form of merry-making consisting in giving every one a shower.

Armed with buckets of water and bamboo reeds, by which they can squirt

the water some distance, these people place themselves at the doors

and gates and on the streets, ready to give any passer-by a drenching,

marking out as special victims those who are foolish enough to wear

good clothes on such a day. It is most amusing to watch them, after

exhausting their supply of water, hasten to the river or well and run

back, fearing the loss of one opportunity. Sometimes several torrents

are directed to one poor individual; then, after the drenching, shouts

of laughter fill the air. On this day the king and his court, with a

long retinue of slaves, go to the river. Some of the attendants carry

silver or brass basins filled with water perfumed with some scented

shrub or flower. When the king reaches the river’s brink he goes a few

steps into the water, where he takes his stand, while the princes and

nobles surround him. The perfumed water is then poured on the king’s

head, afterward on the heads of the nobles, and they plunge into the

river with noisy splashings and laughter. The custom is also observed

in families. A basin of water is poured on the head of the father,

mother and grandparents by the eldest son or by some respected member

of the family. This ceremony has some religious significance, being

symbolical of blessings and felicity; a formula of prayer accompanies

the ceremony in each case.

There is a mountain about five miles from Cheung Mai on whose summit

is said to be a large footprint of Buddha; hence it is sacred ground,

and over it has been built a temple. Into the room over that sacred

spot none but priests are allowed to enter. When passing on the

streets, it is sad to hear the priests repeating their prayers, which

are literally “vain repetitions,” “for they think that they shall be

heard for their much speaking.” Besides the worship of Buddha, and in

seeming opposition to it, are the worship of evil spirits and the

belief in witchcraft. If a person is sick it must be ascertained who

is the person in whom resides the spirit that caused the sickness.

When found, he and his family are banished to a distant province and

his house and goods burned. This is a sure method of wreaking

vengeance on an enemy; if the sick has no grudge against any one, and

is averse to accusing his neighbors, he is beaten until the spirit

within him permits him to reveal the secret. A widow and two sons,

thus accused, sought the protection of the mission, and were allowed

to remain on the mission-compound. They have since become Christians,

and the two boys are in school expecting to study for the ministry.

This experiment has since been tried several times by the

missionaries, and always with success, as the natives do not now dare

to meddle with those under the protection of foreign residents. Has

not evil in this case been turned into a means of good? These people

are thus brought into daily contact with the missionaries and

constantly hear the gospel preached. So great is the Laos superstition

that after one of the missionaries had taken with him one of these

boys to a village on a missionary-tour, the request came from the

villagers that next time the boy be left at home, because he caused

sickness in the village. The answer was given that he had been with

the missionaries a long time and had done no harm. “Oh, well,” said

they, “the spirits are afraid of you foreigners, and when the boys go

into your yard the spirits climb up the tamarind trees by your gate

and wait until they again leave your yard, when the spirits enter them

again.”

CHAPTER XXV.

_A DAY AT CHEUNG MAI._

WASHING THE IDOLS.

Let me take you in imagination to our home in the Laos country. The

house is on the banks of the river Maping, and faces the west. As you

walk from the front gate up through the yard you will notice orange

trees, cocoanut, bamboo, mango and tamarind, with the pomegranate,

custard-apple, guava and coffee tree of smaller growth. Some of the

flowers will seem familiar, as the rose, tiger-lily and one which

bears a resemblance to the beautiful calla. The passion-flower, too,

is here, with greater luxuriance of growth than in America, and many

tropical flowers with heavy waxen petals having a rich perfume. Seated

on the veranda, your eye takes in the view of river, plain and distant

mountain, over which the bright sunshine is streaming. No wonder you

exclaim, “Beautiful for situation is sunny Cheung Mai!”

But now let me take you to the ceremony of _idol-bathing_, which

occurs yearly. We will get our hats and umbrellas, for it is afternoon

and this is the “hot season,” and join the groups of women who are

passing to the nearest temple, about half a mile distant from the

mission premises. Look how neat and clean they appear, dressed in

white jackets and the Balmoral-patterned Laos skirts, with long muslin

scarfs of crimson, purple, yellow or pink thrown over the breast and

shoulders, and with flowers to contrast or correspond with the scarfs

in their glossy black hair. Each woman bears in her hand a metal

basin――in some cases of silver――containing scented water. They have

spent part of the morning compounding perfumery from spices or

flowers, which, when duly prepared, is thrown into the basin with

fresh well-water just before leaving home. If you peep into the basin

you will see newly-gathered flowers lying on the top of the water. It

looks dainty, but its destiny is to wash off the dusty, musty idols

that sit in darkness in their allotted corner from year to year. As

the women pass along they talk merrily together. You will see children

and bright-eyed girls as well as matrons and aged women.

As we approach the temple we get glimpses of its white walls through

the foliage of the large trees which overshadow it. It is built of

brick and plastered. The outer walls are whitened and have a polished

appearance. It is surrounded by a low wall, built also of brick and

plastered. We enter through a gate just in front of the temple-door.

How neatly the grounds are kept, and how shady and pleasant they seem!

In the same enclosure are the little houses where the priests eat and

sleep. There are quite a number of these priests, young and old,

walking about the grounds, dressed in yellow robes and with

closely-shaven heads.

As we pass from the bright, warm sunshine into the dark, dreary

building a feeling of gloom and sadness strikes the soul. The floor is

hard, like stone, being made of some preparation of plaster and

cement, and it looks cold and cheerless. The dull, high walls are

without even a window to break the dismal outline.

On the side opposite the door is the shrine of Buddha. By the light of

the little waxen tapers we observe a large idol of perhaps four feet

in length, with proportionate body, made of wood and overlaid with

gold-leaf. On a shelf below where this sleepy Buddha sits are scores

of smaller idols, covered with gold or silver and similar in

appearance to the large image. If we go nearer we shall see some of

the offerings the women have brought and laid on this shrine. There

are garlands of lovely flowers which fill the air with a heavy

perfume, fruit of different kinds, piles of newly-made yellow robes,

new mats, pillows with embroidered work, etc. These are all for the

priests, and have been prepared by the skillful hands of women. You

soon notice that more than three-fourths of those present are women.

As the time for their so-called worship has come, we look about for

seats, but as none are provided, we shall have to do as the others do,

sit down on the floor. The Laos women are kind and polite, and we soon

find quite a number of soft straw mats at our service, with

invitations to come and sit on this or that mat. Selecting our places,

we are soon seated in an audience of heathen worshipers. How

depressing and melancholy it all seems! The flickering flames of the

tapers cast a weird light over the stupid countenance of the large

idol, toward which every face is turned. The worshiping is not

simultaneous; there is neither rule nor order in it. Neighbors who

have not met for some time are chatting together in an ordinary tone

of voice. A woman sitting by us is inquiring if we are comfortable, if

this is not a pleasant occasion, if this is one of the ways we are

accustomed to worship, etc. While answering her questions we are

observing two women in front of us. One is a mother with a young child

on her knee, in whose little hands she places a sweet, bright flower;

then she closes the tiny hands, palm to palm, the flower projecting

from the tips of the fingers, the stem within the palms. She then,

pressing the hands closely with hers, raises them above its baby head,

at the same time inclining its body in a bow toward the image of

Buddha. So soon do the heathen mothers begin to teach their religion

to their little ones. The other woman is very aged, and she places her

hands just as the baby did, and, raising them high above her head,

bends her body forward till her head and hands are pressing the stony

floor. How abject, how devout she looks in her prostration before the

idol! But she is again, in a minute, taking up the conversation where

it was broken off, with quite a hearty laugh at some passing remark.

By this time a priest begins in a monotonous tone to read from one of

the sacred books. The talking and laughing are going on in the mean

time. No one present understands what is being read, the reader

included, for it is in the Pali language, but they imagine some

blessing comes from the reading, although it is in an unknown tongue.

This over, the ceremony of bathing the idols follows. All rise to

their feet, the women getting their basins of water ready, while the

men carry out the small images and place them in a miniature temple of

bamboo which has been temporarily prepared in the yard. When they are

all arranged the women gather around, and each one dashes her basin of

water over them, but not touching one of them with the end of a

finger; they are too sacred for a woman’s hand to touch. The splashing

and dashing of the water is attended with great hilarity, terminating

in a noisy romp.

As we turn homeward from this scene can we refrain from praying,

“Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly, and reveal thyself to these poor

benighted ones”? In the evening, as we stand again on the veranda,

looking at the sunset, we see on the opposite side of the river a

number of men and women busily gathering up sand and putting it into

baskets. You are astonished when I tell you that this sand is carried

to the temple-grounds and thrown into piles known as _sand-gods_, and

a kind of worship is offered to them. As the night comes on the people

scatter away to their homes; the noisy tumult subsides, leaving a

quiet hush which we welcome most gratefully. But hark! that deep,

heavy _thud! thud!_ in the distance. What is it? It is the beating of

the great drums which are hung in the temple-grounds, to awaken or

notify their gods that an offering is about to be made. You will hear

them at intervals through the night, even into the morning watches.

When the sun goes from you in America this evening it will rise upon

the poor Laos people to awaken them to some of their many forms of

idolatry.

CHAPTER XXVI.

_A LAOS CABIN._

The cabin of the picture could hardly have been copied from any one in

Cheung Mai. In the garden districts temporary huts may be found which

resemble this one. But these, being for the most part on the open

plain, are without the shade of palm or other trees.

The Laos captives near Petchaburee live in houses whose roofs have a

circular appearance. The gables are enclosed with thatch, so arranged

as to form a continuous roof with that of the house. This roof reaches

so low as to shut out all view of the house itself from the passer-by.

These people have come from the north, where both cold and storms are

more severe than where they now live. In Cheung Mai, the eaves of the

roofs and the ends projecting beyond the gables are sometimes caught

with such force by the whirling storm that the roof is carried away.

The whole of this house seems to be resting upon those short posts

which fork at the top. In most of the houses of the Cheung Mai

peasantry these short posts serve to support only the flooring. Strong

beams or sills are laid upon them. Bamboo poles are laid across these

sills about a foot apart and tied with ratan. Over these is spread the

bamboo flooring. This is made from the trunk of a large-sized bamboo.

It is cut into the proper lengths, and these are gashed lengthwise all

over their surface by repeated strokes of the knife or axe. By this

process the sticks become quite pliable. They are then slit open by

passing the knife through one side of them from end to end. The broken

and jagged edges of the inner side of the joints are smoothed off, and

we have bamboo boards a foot or more wide. This flooring bends under

the pressure of the feet, and when dry makes a creaking noise, which

is not very pleasant. When riddled by a small black beetle that

burrows in its fibres, it becomes unsafe to tread upon, and sometimes

one breaks through it. But by putting it, when green, into water, and

keeping it submerged until it passes through the process of

fermentation, it is, in a great measure, free from the ravages of this

beetle. The many chinks in this bamboo floor offer convenient passage

for the streams of red saliva that flow from the mouths of its

betel-chewing inmates.

[Illustration: A LAOS HOME.]

The walls and roofs of these huts are supported by posts set in the

ground some two feet of their length and reaching to the plates. The

ridge of the roof also rests upon posts of the necessary length. The

posts for the walls are arranged according to a long-observed custom.

They must be in sets of threes or fives, etc.; odd numbers bring luck.

The spaces between each of these sets of posts have specific names.

Religious superstition takes under its guidance almost every part of

the work, and when the house is done it still directs as to the day

and the manner of moving in to take possession. No doors or windows

are found in the eastern wall. The family sleep with their heads

toward the east. Part of the main building――generally the end facing

south――is reserved for an open court. The east end of this court has a

wall continuous with that of the house. Along this wall is a shelf

upon which are placed flowers and other offerings in worship of Buddha

and the good spirits. In this outer court, if the family are

religiously inclined, the priests, by invitation, occasionally conduct

a merit-making service for the prosperity of the household. In cases

of sickness like services are held here. Preventives of sickness or

other calamity are often seen resting on the top of the posts under

the plate that receives the rafters. These consist of small pieces of

cloth on which are written certain symbolic characters, the cloths

themselves having become charms, potent against the intrusion of evil

spirits, through the incantations of what our American Indians would

call “medicine-men.”

To make the cabin of the picture a copy of the common Cheung Mai

house, the stair-ladder and the southern wall, as seen there, must be

removed. A platform from eight to twelve feet wide must be raised

within a few inches as high as the floor of the main building. This

platform must extend from near the centre of the house at its southern

end, beyond its south-western corner, to give passage-way to the

kitchen. At the west end of this platform stands a covered settle for

the earthen water-pots which hold water for drinking and cooking. The

outer posts of this platform rise high enough to support a railing,

and a board on top of this railing gives room for earthen flower-pots

and for boxes of earth in which are growing, for family use, onions,

red pepper, garlic, etc. The floor of the platform serves in daytime

for drying betel-nuts and fruit. At night, after the heat of the day,

it furnishes a place for rest under the cooling sky. The stairs are

placed at the end of this platform. Such a house may be built entirely

of bamboo except the grass thatch required for the roof. Neither

hammer nor nail is needed for its construction. The different parts

are held together by thongs of split bamboo or ratan. These houses are

built at small cost. Very many of them are kept neat and tidy. And

they have their conveniences. The writer had occasion to pay a native

peasant a considerable sum of money. This man, after counting the

rupees and testing their genuineness, one by one, by poising it on the

tip of his finger and tapping it gently with another rupee, tied the

money up in a piece of rag, and, rising, dropped it from the top into

the hollow of one of the posts that supported the wall behind him.

This post gave him a perfect concealment for his treasure. It was

_his_ “safe,” answering the same purpose to him that the iron one,

with its intricate locks, does to the banker, except that in the case

of the Oriental a stray spark would soon set his house and his “safe”

ablaze together. Still, he could linger near for the few moments it

would take the flame to lick up his house, and very soon after he

would have his silver rupees, melted, it might possibly be, into a

common mass.

There is no time――nor is it necessary――to speak of the trees that

throw around and over the houses of the native peasantary their cool

and protecting shade. Many of these houses are hidden away among the

trees, some of which, for size, vie with those of the forest. Among

the most beautiful of these trees are clumps of bamboo, from which

material has been obtained for the building or repair of the very

houses which they now envelop in their shade.

The owners of this little cabin seem busy――and happy as they are

busy――at work. The wife may be cleaning the fish which her husband

caught last night in a neighboring stream and brought home in that

vase-shaped bamboo basket sitting behind her to the right. If so, she

will string them in a row upon a bamboo splint, and when the fire is

built she will stick the splint in the ground near enough to the fire

to cook the fish. The husband is preparing the pot to cook or steam

the rice. A neighbor woman was passing along, and has stopped to talk

a few minutes and to see the woman cleaning her fish. Splint baskets

of different sizes and shapes are standing around (some of them under

the dwelling)――indications of industry and thrift.

There are a few of these bamboo cabins on the plains of Cheung Mai

which have become vocal with the prayers and praises of God’s people.

Before the gospel came to them their inmates shared in common with

their neighbors the transient joys of earth. For their fears and

griefs they had no solace, either from earth or heaven. Now the “Light

of life” shines into their souls, and they “joy in the Lord that

bought them.” And, however humble their homes may be, however fragile,

the Saviour abides with them, and is preparing them for and leading

them to his Father’s house. The light, too, is shining from these

Christian cabins to others yet in darkness. The Saviour has purposes

of mercy for other homes in the cities and villages of these northern

Laos.

CHAPTER XXVII.

_SUPERSTITIONS OF THE LAOS._

A full account of the superstitions of the Laos would very fairly

represent their intellectual attainments: their reasoning facilities

are entirely in subjection to the imagination in accounting for the

most ordinary natural phenomena; their reverential awe of supposed

supernatural agencies stands in the place of any rational perception

of natural causes. As, however, anything like a full statement of

their superstitions would fill a volume, nothing more than a slight

sketch of some of their more common superstitions will be attempted in

this chapter.

It is difficult for any one living in a community surrounded with all

the products of the inventive genius of man, and in the enjoyment of

the varied results of intellectual development, to form any adequate

conception of the benighted condition of the Laos mind as is indicated

by a statement of some of the miserable absurdities entertained by

them as sober and fundamental truths. Among them we can see examples

in daily life of those hideous spectres of superstition such as served

to guide the pitiful gropings of the intellectual and moral life of

Europe three centuries ago. The man who should speak lightly of

necromancy or deny the existence of spirits of every shade of

malignity presiding over the affairs of society, or question the

propriety of cutting off the heads of sorcerers, would be, in the

ordinary affairs of life, untrustworthy, in religion a heretic, and in

legislation a candidate for the honor of decapitation. Average Laos

credulity――and the Laos are all average――will accept any absurdity,

however monstrous, provided only it be supernatural. Consequently, any

operation of nature outside of the most ordinary is satisfactorily

accounted for by reference to some demon or spirit, or some other

equally plausible account is given in explanation of the phenomenon.

So the uprooting of a tree by a hurricane is the work of an enraged

spirit; an earthquake is produced by an immense fish moving its fins;

while a horde of demons preside over the mountains, the forests, the

fields and streams. A special divinity is supposed to preside over

each forest, and the hunter who collects the honey of the wild bee

must make an offering to this divinity to ensure a good yield of

honey. Indeed, almost every transaction of social or domestic life

must be effected with direct reference to one or another of a

multitude of spirits.

A Laos going on a journey must hunt him out a wise man, one who can

read, and ascertain a lucky day for starting; this is done by

consulting a kind of astrological table. A day of the week being found

to coincide properly with a day of the moon and with the nativity of

the pilgrim, offerings are duly made to the spirits, to ensure, if not

their good-will, at least their neutrality; then with a feeling of

security the journey is undertaken. No imaginable exigency of business

could induce a Laos to depart from this method; and the occasional

impetuosity of a foreigner arouses in a Laotian a sleepy kind of

compassionate wonder. The commander entering upon a campaign can move

only upon a lucky day and after making the necessary offerings, which

is a ceremony involving delay and careful attention just in proportion

to the importance of the expedition. Traders traveling by boats cannot

enter or leave the mountains through which the river winds without a

prayer and an offering of wax tapers, flowers and incense to the

mountain-spirits; a neglect of this ceremony may entail the loss of a

boat in the rapids, or indeed any calamity.

Twice a year offerings are made to the spirits of the river for having

defiled the water by bathing and by throwing refuse into it. Toy boats

and rafts are made, upon which are placed flowers, betel-nut,

seri-leaf, incense and lighted tapers; this offering is a public

ceremony, and is performed once in the eleventh month and once in the

twelfth month, the lighted boats and rafts making a very pretty

illumination of the river.

When any one is dangerously ill, one method of appeasing the spirits

is to make a miniature boat or raft, on which are placed clay images,

rice, vegetables, meat, fruits and other food, flowers and wax tapers;

the boat or raft is placed either upon the water or in the street,

whichever is the public highway. The spirits are supposed to find this

food, etc. and accept the token of homage.

For three months of the year, during Buddhist Lent, lanterns are hung

aloft to guide the spirits through the air, and thus leave them no

excuse for coming down in the streets. The observance of this custom

is very general, and is probably so, partly at least, from the fact of

its being a very sickly season, diseases being supposed to be due to

the spirits.

During the latter part of the dry season (from February to May) the

Laos people very religiously observe the various rites and ceremonies

of spirit-worship. This is a season in which no remunerative work for

the people at large can be engaged in, and, perhaps in consequence of

this, the time is occupied in various religious observances, and these

are principally spirit-worshipings.

One ceremony which was originally peculiar to the Peguans (descendants

of war-captives), but has been to a considerable extent adopted by the

Laos, is observed at this season. All the family connections join in

having a spirit-festival. A booth is built; food and drink are

provided in abundance for those who participate in the ceremony; the

booth is canopied with white muslin supported by light bamboo posts,

and is open all around, with arches made of cocoanut-leaves; at one

side of the booth is a space partially enclosed with gay screens, in

which the offerings to the spirits are placed on a table. These

offerings consist of food and drink, also clothing. From the centre of

the canopy is suspended a white cotton sheet. The ceremony is a dance

performed only by women, who enter the enclosure, and, after partaking

freely of the food――these spirits have a special weakness for pork and

whiskey――bury their faces in the suspended sheet mentioned above,

waiting for the descent of the spirit. The dancers do not have to wait

long for the entrance of the spirit, for the whiskey has made them

very sensitive to the spirit-influence; when the spirit has entered

the medium begins to sway her body to and fro and to gesticulate with

the hands and arms, after the fashion of Laos dancing, to the music of

a Laos orchestra. Laos music is appropriate to such an occasion, for

it is a combination of agonizing sounds which for harshness cannot

perhaps be excelled. The spirits seem to have thirsted for a year, for

the fair dancers make frequent visits to the whiskey, and even

affectionately take a bottle in each hand and dance around with them,

never neglecting to administer to the insatiable thirst of the spirit.

After attaining to an advanced stage of intoxication the dancers array

themselves in the costumes provided for the spirits――usually articles

of men’s clothing――and, arming themselves with swords and spears, they

stagger after intruders or acquaintances, who, if caught, must engage

in the dance. This unseemly revelry continues from early morn until

dark, the Laos band rendering the one favorite air without ceasing,

except to take an occasional draught of the beverage sacred to the

spirits.

While the Laos believe that the universe is controlled by spirits,

their belief in magic implies that certain persons can command the

services of some of the spirits to accomplish the darkest designs. No

superstition is more general throughout Siam and Laos than the belief

in magic. Among the Laos it is supposed that a sorcerer can command a

spirit to assume the form of an insect, which, flying against the

person whose destruction is intended, enters him and is transformed

usually into a buffalo hide, though it may assume after entering the

body of the victim any form, according to the will of the sorcerer.

The Siamese very generally believe that the Laos possess this occult

power, and the Laos, knowing little concerning it, credit the Karens

and other mountain-tribes with it. About two years ago two Karens were

brought to the city of Cheung Mai by some of their neighbors, charged

with having caused the death of a young man by enchantment. The case

was very clear against the accused. The young man had a musical

instrument which these Karens wished to purchase; the owner refused to

sell it, and a short time afterward he became ill, and died, I

believe, on the fourteenth day of his illness; at his cremation a

portion of his body would not burn and was of a shape similar to the

musical instrument. Thus it was clear that his death had been caused

by a spirit entering his body and taking the form of the coveted

musical instrument. The Karens were beheaded, protesting that they

were innocent of the crime charged against them, and threatening that

their spirits should return and wreak vengeance for their unjust

punishment. It is but just to add that cases of this kind are not of

frequent occurrence.

These nightmares of the Laos imagination are almost incredible to us,

though they are terrible realities to them.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

_TREATMENT OF THE SICK._

The treatment of the sick among the Laos ranks as a distinct

profession. Although the Laos doctors may not have classified their

knowledge of diseases in a way that we should call scientific, and

although a white foreigner might be so unsolicitous of his own bodily

welfare as to prefer the chance of nature to the professional skill of

the whole Laos faculty, still, their system of medicine is quite an

extensive one and embraces some very abstruse subjects. The Laos

doctors are not required to have a diploma and do not attend any

medical school, nor do they, as a rule, serve an apprenticeship; they

just take to doctoring naturally. Some of them are widely known as

successful general practitioners; others gain considerable notoriety

in the treatment of certain diseases and become specialists of wide

reputation. Some three or four medical books, treating of the

mysteries of vital phenomena and learnedly elucidating the doctrine of

the four elements, enrich Laos literature; these classic volumes also

contain invaluable formulæ, and the doctor who is so fortunate as to

own one of these books is held in high repute for his superior

learning, notwithstanding he may not be able to decipher a line of it.

Practically, the Laos, so far as the average doctor is concerned, have

no medical treatises.

The Laos are without a definite knowledge of any of the organs or

functions of the human body; no Harvey or Sylvius has ever arisen

among them. All of their theories concerning the bodily functions and

the four elements are merely philosophic guesses. Imagination has

taken the place of reason and experiment. Speculation furnishes them

with a satisfactory solution of the problem, “Why is it that instead

of flesh (muscles) only, tendons are found in the human body?”

The Laos divide diseases into two classes. The first class includes

all those disorders which may be considered as simply disturbances of

equilibrium caused by an undue preponderance or diminution of one of

the four elements――wind, fire, earth and water; the second class

embraces all those more serious disorders of the human system which

are due directly or indirectly to the influence of offended spirits.

The Laos materia medica embraces a considerable variety of medicines,

nearly every one of which is supposed to be a specific in some

disease; and, although his ideas of the medicinal qualities of these

drugs may be entirely theoretical, not to say fanciful, the Laos

doctor administers them just as freely as if he had experimentally

demonstrated their physiological properties. The bones, teeth, blood

and gall of the tiger, bear, elephant, rhinoceros and crocodile are

among the most highly-esteemed remedies; besides their specific

curative properties, these medicines impart the courage of the tiger,

the stability, dignity and longevity of the elephant, the solemnity

and tranquillity of the crocodile, the equanimity, contentment and

philosophic indifference to external things and other virtues

characteristic of the rhinoceros. Likewise, they eat the bones of the

raven to protect them from evil spirits, and perhaps also to enable

them to eat with impunity and relish of any dish; it is to be feared

that certain purloining instincts of this bird have been communicated

in this way!

Patient observation and intelligent experimental investigation are

entirely unknown to the Laos medicine-man; it is doubtful if he has,

either by intelligent experiment or by accident, arrived at one

solitary verifiable fact either in physiology or therapeutics;

satisfied with his supposed stock of knowledge, he has no desire to

increase it.

When called to see a patient the Laos doctor states authoritatively

what the ailment is; then proceeds to prepare a dose of medicine,

which process it is interesting to watch. Seating himself upon a mat

on the floor, he calls for the medicine-stone――a block of fine

sandstone kept in nearly every house――and upon it rubs his drugs,

which are carried in the crude form. The dose is composed of

indefinite proportions of various roots, herbs and minerals, the

teeth, bones, blood and gall of the tiger, bear, crocodile, etc.,

egg-shells, and anything else that the doctor may have; for, perhaps

with a view to alternative conditions, he uses a portion of every drug

he has, thus leaving slim chances of any unrecognized or latent

symptom remaining untouched. The portions of the various drugs worn

off by these rubbings are carefully washed into an earthen vessel, and

water to the amount of about half a gallon is added; this makes one

dose, or, in case the patient is not strong enough or is not of

sufficient capacity, the medicine is to be administered in small

doses――say half a pint or so――every half hour. This kind of treatment

is continued for two or three days, or, if the patient is

exceptionally vigorous, it may continue longer, a new doctor usually

taking charge of the patient on each succeeding day. The attending

physician usually remains by his patient day and night until it is

decided to call in another doctor or until convalescence is

established. If the patient grows worse, two or three doctors are

called in during the day, each one promising to effect a cure, and

each in turn is dismissed if an immediate improvement is not evident.

This is continued until the exhausted sufferer no longer tosses to and

fro, but lies unconscious, breathing hard, the patient watching of the

fond mother or sister is nearly over, the anxious pleading whisper is

hushed, and the death-wail tells that another home is desolate,

another soul seeks its eternal destiny.

As already mentioned, the Laos imagine many diseases to be caused by

spirits. Those diseases which are peculiarly fatal, and over which

they can exercise little or no control, are supposed to be due to

agencies outside of nature. This belief encourages a disposition to

neglect the investigation of natural causes and to multiply the

instances of supposed supernatural manifestations. Thus the appeal to

the supernatural to account for those deadly diseases so common in

tropical climates strengthens and extends the superstitious belief

which alone furnishes this interpretation of the mysterious phenomena

of nature. This tendency to bring the intellectual faculties under

subjection to the imagination is, of course, not limited to the realm

of diseases, for every extraordinary phenomenon is supposed to be

supernatural. The prevalence of fatal diseases and the frequency of

epidemics secure this stronghold of superstition; any scheme which has

for its object the elevation and enlightenment, the religious and

intellectual regeneration, of the Laos must include efficient medical

work, for in no other way can these superstitions be more immediately

affected than by the rational treatment of diseases.

This belief in the supernatural causation of diseases is not confined

to those disorders which are of rare occurrence: many forms of disease

of every-day occurrence are attributed to spirits. Rheumatism is said

to be caused by a “swamp-spirit;” the treatment for it might be said

to be more surgical than medical. When a person is afflicted with a

swamp-spirit, the doctor takes an axe or a large knife and draws the

edge of it along the affected part, without, however, touching it, at

the same time advising the spirit to return to its former abode.

Epileptic seizures are supposed to be due to spirits, and the proper

treatment is for two or more men to stand upon the thighs and pelvis

of the unfortunate sufferer, and so prevent the entrance of the spirit

into some of the vital organs. This plan is said to be quite

successful, as many patients so treated have recovered.

The absurdities of superstitious belief among the Laos might be

multiplied indefinitely: these instances are, however, sufficient.

Impressed with a sense of their utter helplessness in dealing with

those mysterious agencies which are so hostile to them, they

invariably conclude that man is subject to the government of invisible

and malignant beings of whom he can know nothing, and whose anger,

when aroused, no merely material agencies can appease. So in every

case of sickness offerings must be made to the offended spirits;

readings from the sacred books and prayers must be rehearsed.

These beliefs, however, as long as they remain general and

theoretical, are mild in their effects in comparison with another

superstition of the Laos, which I must not fail to mention. Abandoning

the vague and general, in this superstition their belief becomes

terribly specific: they imagine that the spirit or essence of one

living person may enter the body of another person and inflict serious

injuries, and, unless expelled, even destroy life; furthermore, they

can ascertain whose spirit it is. This kind of spirit they term _Pee

K’a_. Hysteria, delirium, variation of surface temperature are among

the symptoms supposed to indicate this kind of possession. The

treatment is a specialty, and the doctors who understand these cases

gain great notoriety and are sent for from far and near to exorcise

the spirits. The exorcism involves a practice full of savage cruelty

to the patient and of barbarous injustice to the unfortunate neighbor

whose spirit is accused of having entered the patient. I had

repeatedly requested permission to witness an investigation of one of

these cases, and at last had an opportunity. I learned that the

patient had some months ago suffered from a protracted illness

(probably typhoid fever), and during her illness had lost the power of

speech. She recovered gradually and became quite well and strong, but

was still unable to speak. One day she went with a party of children

to a temple, and while there spoke a few words more or less

distinctly; her companions became alarmed and ran home. Supposing the

case to be one of witchcraft, the owner (the girl was a slave) sent

for the spirit-doctor; three of these specialists were present when I

reached the place. After asking some questions concerning the previous

illness of the patient, a consultation was in order, the most

important feature of which seemed to be the drinking of a bowl of

arrack (whiskey distilled from rice); these spirit-doctors took

frequent and prolonged draughts; they drank as if to slake an ancient

thirst. I thought they liked it, but I was informed that the learned

doctors drank simply in order to facilitate their communication with

the spirit, and that the chances were that they did not like the taste

of whiskey.

Having at length decided upon a suitable line of action, the doctors

proceeded to the investigation of the case. The most eminent of the

doctors――at least the one who had consumed the most whiskey――took a

tiger’s tooth, and, muttering some gibberish, drew it along the side

and back of the patient, leaving deep scratches; the patient, unable

to speak, of course writhed and struggled. At length, after a deeper

incision (which drew the blood), the patient uttered an audible cry;

this sound was interpreted by the ferocious, drunken spirit-doctors to

indicate the situation of the spirit. With a vigorous thrust in the

side, while his assistant, thinking he had discovered the spirit in

another region, was equally attentive, the chief inquisitor with foul

and abusive language ordered the spirit to leave. The exorcism was a

failure, and the spirit refused to make itself known, though

pressingly flattered to do so by the persuasive and forcible eloquence

of these three drunken, demoniac savages.

In these investigations any injury inflicted is directed against the

spirit, and any answers to questions asked by the doctor or the

friends of the patient are supposed to proceed from the spirit; so the

doctor asks the name of the spirit, and the patient, if conscious or

partly so, will, in order to escape torture, give the name of some

acquaintance, probably some near and intimate neighbor; for usually

some suspicion will have been expressed. The name of some one having

been mentioned by the patient, various questions concerning the

domestic relations of the family of the person named are asked, such

as the names of all the members of the family, the number of cattle

they own, the amount of money they have, and sundry other questions

concerning things supposed to be known only to members of the family.

If to all these questions satisfactory answers are given, the person

whose name is mentioned is accused of witchcraft, and, together with

all his family, all in the house, must leave the neighborhood;

everything belonging to them, except such articles as can be easily

removed, is committed to the flames; they cannot sell their gardens

nor rice-fields nor any other possession, since no one will risk the

supposed contamination. The accused cannot settle in any adjoining

neighborhood, but must go as strangers into some distant province

occupied only by others like themselves driven from their homes upon

charges of witchcraft. All the accumulations of a lifetime of thrift

and economy may at any time be sacrificed to the whims of this blind

credulity. This superstition is one of the greatest social evils;

indeed, it entails more serious injury than all other beliefs and

practices combined. No one receives any benefit from it; it is purely

destructive. Hundreds of families are yearly driven from their homes

in obedience to the requirements of this degrading prostitution of the

human intellect.

MEDICAL MISSIONARY WORK AMONG THE LAOS.

Since the establishment of the Cheung Mai mission in 1867 the

missionaries have made the care of the sick a part of their regular

work. Dr. Vrooman was the first missionary physician sent to Cheung

Mai; he was compelled, on account of his health, to leave there in

1873, having remained only about two years. Dr. Vrooman’s successor

arrived in Cheung Mai in the spring of 1875. During the six months

ending Sept. 30, 1875, about six hundred patients received treatment

of the foreign doctor. The work has increased steadily since that

time; in the year ending Sept. 30, 1882, thirteen thousand persons

received treatment. This increase in seven years from about one

thousand to thirteen thousand a year indicates that the work of the

medical missionary supplies a demand.

Because of having no hospital accommodations, the work has been

chiefly dispensary work, while as many as could be personally attended

have been visited at their homes. Notwithstanding this large increase

in the number of patients treated, the results of the medical work

have not been very gratifying. The difficulties with which one has to

struggle in dispensary work or house visitation are so great as to

render any effort almost devoid of satisfactory results from a

professional point of view; and, obviously, the conditions which

interfere with the medical work will also interfere with the

missionary work; in fact, what are molehills in the former become

mountains in the latter.

The houses of the Laos are located and built in violation of all

hygienic considerations, and in addition to the counteracting

influences arising from the imperfect sanitary surroundings, the

foreign physician has to contend against persistent meddlesome

interference with his directions; and in this contention he wages a

losing warfare, for he has arrayed against him that influence which is

so potent everywhere――namely, the prestige of ancient superstitions

sanctioned by ignorance and custom. In the treatment of diseases the

skill of the most competent physician is of no avail without the

faithful and skillful execution of his orders, which can be

accomplished alone by an intelligent and sympathizing nurse――I might

rather say, a trained nurse. The foreign physician is usually sent for

as a last resort, and is simply expected to perform a miracle; and

unless he in a measure satisfies the wildest requirements he is

pronounced a failure, and his presence is considered as rather an

intrusion and a source of mischief; for he forbids ceremonies which

are supposed to be essential to the welfare of the household, a

neglect of which may occasion both immediate and remote disaster.

Although spirit-worship and other religious observances are of

paramount importance in their homes, they willingly neglect them when

treated upon our own premises.

Upon entering a sick chamber the physician finds the air almost

suffocating, and must conduct his examination by the dim light of a

small wax taper, for in the construction of a Laos house the principal

object to be attained seems to be the utter exclusion of light, there

being no doors or windows except the necessary entrance. The

examination concluded, the physician gives his directions concerning

the management of the patient and goes his way, with the assurance

that his instructions will be regarded by the friends of the patient

as of some importance or as utterly insignificant, just according to

their own views of the case.

Dispensary work is equally unsatisfactory. The friends of the patients

come to the dispensary and describe as well as they can the most

obvious symptoms, and from the information obtained in this

exceedingly unsatisfactory way an opinion as to the nature of the

patient’s ailment must be arrived at and a prescription made. The

results of such a method could not be otherwise than unsatisfactory

even with intelligent nursing and a faithful observance of directions.

As to the nursing of the sick among the Laos, it is sufficient to

state that it is such as to seriously compromise any favorable

tendencies, and the directions given by the physician are usually

subject to any amendments that may be suggested by the inclinations of

the patient or the opinions of nurses or friends. If supposed to be

seriously ill, the patient is visited by a throng of relatives,

friends and acquaintances, and is disturbed by a ceaseless hum of

voices; elderly ladies entertain one another at the bedside of the

patient with the fullest accounts of the nature, course, duration and

proper treatment of similar cases which they have witnessed, some of

them relating the circumstances of the marvelous cures effected by

some skillful doctor while others dwell upon the melancholy import of

the symptoms.

Having concluded his daily routine of dispensary work, the foreign

doctor makes his second visit to his patient. Arrived at the house, he

probably finds it filled with the relatives and friends of the

patient, all devoutly attending a reading from the Buddhist scriptures

by a priest or a number of priests, according to the means of the

patient; long prayers and chants are rehearsed, sacred water is

sprinkled over the patient, offerings of flowers and wax tapers are

made to the household spirits. After this ceremony, which lasts for

several hours, the patient passes into the hands of a native doctor.

CHAPTER XXIX.

_A TOUR IN THE LAOS COUNTRY._

This journey was made by G. W. Vrooman, M. D., and the Rev.

Mr. McGilvary in 1872, to ascertain, in a portion of the

East but little known to us, the size and comparative

importance of the Laos chief cities and villages in

reference to missionary work, to preach the gospel, and to

observe the disposition of the authorities and people toward

foreigners, especially toward teachers of the Christian

religion.

During the early part of the dry season our time had been so occupied

that it was not till after the first heavy showers of the rainy season

had fallen that we decided to go. Our journey, in consequence, was

hurriedly made, and the time we remained in different cities was

barely sufficient to allow us opportunity to accomplish our objects

satisfactorily to ourselves. At our stopping-places the gospel was

preached and a few books were distributed――few, because we had no

more. We visited the authorities, made known the object of our journey

through their country, and endeavored to ascertain the leading

features relative to their provinces, their population, extent, etc.,

and to judge whether sufficient encouragement was offered to repeat

the visit at some future time.

After deciding upon the expediency of the tour we were for some time

in doubt whether it would be wise to go at that season of the year.

Foreign residents of this country consider it unsafe to travel during

the rainy season, and even the natives fear long journeys through the

forests. The jungle is the home of a multitude of savage beasts, but

these are not more dreadful than its malaria.

After engaging our elephants we went to the king for a passport. Had

this been refused us we could not have gone. He, however, very

cordially furnished us with one, and wished us a prosperous journey.

This passport was so worded that we were to travel as his guests, and

yet to go for the purpose of teaching the Christian religion, healing

the sick, etc. It was so worded, I believe, out of deference to our

request, and not from any special interest in our work. We were

furnished with the kind of passport given to certain Siamese officers

who are here occasionally, or to their own princes when required to

visit a neighboring province; and because it is customary to state the

object of their journey in a passport there occurred the anomaly of a

Buddhist king sending men forth to preach the Christian religion under

his protection. I may add here that after we had gone an officer of

the Siamese government here at the time, reproved the king sharply for

having allowed us to go. I think the Siamese are jealous of the visits

of foreigners to their distant provinces. A few years ago Cambodia was

won from its allegiance by the French. By many of the natives we are

believed to be political agents acting in behalf of England or of some

foreign power.

Our preparations for the journey were soon completed. Perhaps the most

important articles in our outfit were medicines. With our letter we

need not have taken money in our purses, but no script from any

earthly potentate can give such security against malaria as a few

grains of quinine, and no person is safe in this country during the

rainy season without it. Besides medicines and money to pay our way,

we took a small supply of canned provisions――only enough, however, for

use in case of sickness, as our food was to be procured on the way. It

was necessary to take as little baggage as possible. A tent, blankets

and a few extra articles of clothing, books, cooking utensils, guns

and ammunition, about completed our outfit. We had four elephants, two

of which were reserved for baggage. We had also an escort of six

natives, besides those who accompanied the elephants――fourteen in all.

After commending ourselves and those we left to the care of God, we

set out at noon, April 15th, on our journey. Elephant-traveling is

slow, scarcely averaging two miles per hour. Our course for the first

hundred miles lay toward the north-east. The level country over which

we first passed is occupied by a rural population. Our road, for the

first ten or twelve miles, was through rice-fields. Here and there we

could see small hamlets, whose sites were marked by graceful palm

trees. Narrow strips of forest, extending in irregular curves, joined

the different villages and formed the near boundary of our horizon.

They marked the course of small streams and irrigating canals. After

six hours’ travel we left the plain for the mountain-country, but two

hours before doing so we had entered the forest. Thenceforth, till we

reached Muang-Pau, a small village eight days’ journey distant, we saw

no houses, save in a small hamlet of thirty or forty inhabitants at

“Boiling Springs.” Our route, a main road traveled over betwixt Cheung

Mai, Cheung Rai and Cheung Toong, was merely an elephant-path through

a dense forest. On Sabbath, while encamped near a small stream in this

forest, we met Saan-yawee-Chai, the native Christian whose home is in

Muang-Pau. He was on his way to Lampoon. It was our intention to visit

him at his home, but Providence directed his steps to us. He excused

himself for traveling on Sunday by saying that he was not well

instructed in the duties and observances of the Christian religion,

and that also he was in company with those who would not stop.

[Illustration: CAMPING IN A LAOS FOREST.]

After eleven days from home we arrived at Cheung Rai. This is a small

city of three hundred houses, population between two and three

thousand. It is in the province of Cheung Mai, and its chief officers

receive their appointment from the chief or king of this place. It is

situated on the banks of the Ma-Kok, fifty or sixty miles from where

that river joins the Ma-Kawng (or Cambodia) River. The large plain

outside of the walls of the city is but thinly populated. The people

are mostly fishermen. Only a small portion of the surrounding country

is under cultivation, hence there are but few villages in its

vicinity. Here we dismissed our elephants, and by noon on the

following day had completed our preparations for the river-journey.

During our delay there Mr. McGilvary was occupied with the numbers of

people who visited us at our sala, preaching the gospel, distributing

from our supply of Siamese books to those who could read, and

gathering information concerning the country.

We set out again as soon as our boat and men were ready. Our passage

down the Ma-Kok to the Cambodia River occupied two days, during which

time we passed four or five small villages of twenty or thirty houses

each. These were near to Cheung Rai, within three hours’ journey of

it. We spent our Sabbath on a sandy bank of this river, as we did the

preceding one, many miles away from human habitations. In the morning

we discovered tracks of a large tiger near our boat. These fierce

brutes are quite numerous throughout the country. For mutual

protection against their attacks, and the more dreaded depredations of

robbers, nearly all the people of this country reside in villages or

congregate in larger numbers in cities. The Kamoos, a mountain-tribe

of people, inhabitants of this country at an earlier period than the

Laos, form an exception to this rule. More about them hereafter.

Near the mouth of the Ma-Kok is a mountain by the Laos called

Doi-Prabat-Rua, or “sacred feet and boat.” It is considered a holy

place, and many pilgrims go thither seeking to make merit. It does not

have, like the mountain of a similar name in Siam, an impression of a

foot in its rock. Its object of veneration is an unfinished stone

boat. The legend of the people is that Gotama Buddha commenced to hew

out of the solid rock a boat which was to be about thirty feet in

length. It was left when about half finished, and remains an object of

superstitious veneration, if not of worship. Few if any Laos will pass

it without fervently raising the folded hands toward it and murmuring

a prayer.

We stopped a day at Ban Saao, a small village on the Cambodia River,

near the mouth of the Ma-Kok, and from there visited the ruins of the

city of Cheung Sau. This was at one time the largest and most populous

city in this part of the interior; it was the capital city of a very

powerful Burmese province. Seventy years ago the city was taken and

destroyed by the Siamese, its inhabitants put to the sword or forced

into slavery and the entire province rendered desolate, in which

condition it remains to this day. The province thus depopulated, and

now the home only of wild beasts, is not as large as the province of

Cheung Mai, I believe. The territory under the rule of the king of

Cheung Mai is about as large as the States of Massachusetts,

Connecticut and Rhode Island; the waste province of Cheung Sau is

probably about as large as Connecticut. Nothing now remains of the

destroyed city save the walls and the tumbling ruins of temples.

Thousands of idols, images of Buddha, are scattered around in the old

wat- or temple-grounds. Helpless to save the city from its fate, they

were abandoned, and are now trodden under foot of the deer, wild

elephants and tigers, whose tracks now form the by-ways of that city.

After wandering about the place for several hours, we returned to Ban

Saao, and then continued our journey down the Cambodia. One day’s

travel brought us to Cheung Khawng. This is a Laos city of two or

three thousand inhabitants, and belongs to the province of Muang-Nan.

No inhabitants on the river-banks between Ban Saao and Cheung Khawng.

Many years ago a village was commenced, several houses built and a

clearing made in the forest. About twenty houses were reared, but the

people were obliged to desist, as many of them were killed by the

tigers. We remained at Cheung Khawng two days, called upon the

governor and some of the officers, visited many of the temples, and

everywhere talked with those who were willing to listen. Cheung Khawng

is also a fisher-town. There are very few suburban villages, fewer

even than around Cheung Rai.

Left Cheung Khawng on the 3d of May. Our passage down the Cambodia to

Muang-Luang-Prabang was rapidly made, and occupied only five days,

including the Sabbath. The distance to the latter place from Cheung

Rai is probably about three hundred miles, or from Cheung Khawng

nearly two hundred. The current of the Cambodia is very swift, in

places so much so that it was dangerous to navigate. The river is

nearly a mile wide in places, and where the channel is narrowed it

rushes along with frightful rapidity. No scenery is finer, not even

that of the Hudson, during the entire distance we traveled on it.

Mountains rise from either bank to the height of three or four

thousand feet. The river fills the bottom of a long winding valley,

and as we glided swiftly down it there seemed to move by us the

panorama of two half-erect, ever-changing landscapes of woodland

verdure and blossom. Only as we neared the city did we see rough and

craggy mountain-peaks and barren towering precipices. The villages

along the river are few and small――from Cheung Khawng to within three

hours’ travel of Muang-Luang-Prabang not more than six, averaging

twenty to thirty houses each. About three hours from the latter city

is the mouth of the Ma-Oo River. This river comes down from the north

and drains the country of the Liews.

Muang-Luang-Prabang is the capital city of a Laos province which is

perhaps even more extensive than Cheung Mai. The population of the

city has been variously estimated. My companion on the tour agrees

with me in placing the figure at twenty or twenty-five thousand. It is

probably the third largest city in the kingdom of Siam or tributary to

it. Ayuthia is the second, and Cheung Mai probably the fourth. While

the city itself contains a larger population than Cheung Mai, it has

not, like this, a large rural population in its immediate vicinity. It

is situated on the east bank of the Cambodia, on a plain which is not

more than four or five miles wide. A few miles above and below the

city the plain is bounded by high mountains, which reach to the river

and form its banks. A small river, the Ma-Kahn, comes in from the east

and divides the city into two unequal portions. The plain immediately

back of the city is not cultivated nor inhabited. We were told that

there were a number of villages on the banks of the Ma-Kahn. During

the season of high water boats ascend this stream――a month’s journey.

I presume it is then the highway on which the Kamoos bring their

produce to the Muang-Luang-Prabang market. The city is more compact

than any of the Laos cities which we visited. Its market is not so

large as that in Cheung Mai, but we found in it, besides the fruits

and vegetables of the country, many articles, especially cloths, of

foreign manufacture. These are brought from Bangkok. The meats in the

market are fish, pork and fowls. The former are abundant; many of

them, taken from the Cambodia River, would weigh over a hundred pounds

each.

DIFFERENT TRIBES.

The Laos of Muang-Luang-Prabang differ somewhat from those of Cheung

Mai. That province and Wieng-Chun are the provinces of the “Eastern”

(or “White”) Laos――the four cities or provinces of Nan, Praa, Lakawn

and Lampoon, of the “Northern” (or “Black”) Laos. The difference

bearing upon missionary work is that of language. Our Cheung Mai

escort experienced nearly the same difficulty in understanding the

“Eastern” Laos that a Siamese would have. The Eastern Laos dialect is

more nearly allied to the Siamese than is the Northern. It does not

occupy a middle position between the dialect of Cheung Mai and that of

Siam, but probably bears a relation to the Siamese and Cochin Chinese

languages, as the Northern Laos dialect does to the Siamese, Burmese,

Karens, Liew (or Lew) and Chinese tongues. The Eastern Laos understand

the spoken language of Siam better than they do that of the Northern

Laos. The differences between the Siamese, Northern and Eastern Laos,

Liews, Ngieus, Yongs, etc. is illustrated in the dialectic differences

of our own language as spoken in the different parts of England.

The letters used in writing the language of this province are

universally used throughout the Northern Laos provinces and by the

Liews, Yongs and in many of the Burmese provinces. The written

characters of the Eastern Laos are not much different from these. The

books of either people can be read by the other, though not without a

little difficulty. Siamese books cannot be read in any of the Laos

provinces, except by a few persons. Thus, the Bible printed in the

Cheung Mai Laos letters could easily be read in all the “Northern”

Laos, and in many of the Eastern Burmese, provinces and among

independent tribes of Liews, etc., and with but little difficulty by

the Eastern Laos.

The Liews are comparatively numerous in Muang-Luang-Prabang. Their

province lies to the north of it, and joins the southern border of

Western China. They are an independent, bold, hardy and cruel people.

They dress better than the Laos, the style of their clothing

resembling that of the Chinese. Their traders visit the Laos, Burmese

and Chinese provinces. Their principal city is Cheung Hoong, situated

(on the Cambodia River) to the north of Muang-Luang-Prabang. They have

a finer and more intelligent appearance than the Laos. Their tribe is

not so numerous as the Laos.

The Yongs occupy a province south of the Liews. Their principal city

is a small one on the Ma-Yong (River), a tributary of the Cambodia,

which empties into it above the desolated province of Cheung San. They

are also subject, I believe, to the king of Burmah. The above-mentioned

tribes of people in many respects resemble the Northern Laos. Except

the Ngieus, they have the same written language, and the difference in

the spoken language is not great. The Lwoas are another tribe of the

same family. Representatives of all these tribes, as well as Burmese,

Karens, Siamese, Peguans and Chinese, are found in all the Laos

provinces. Those most numerous in Muang-Luang-Prabang are the Liews.

The religion of all the peoples before-mentioned, except the Karens

and the Kamoos, is Buddhism, more or less mixed with Shamanism.

The Karens, Red Karens, Kamoos and Kamates are not Buddhists, but

worship or believe in evil spirits, to whose influence they attribute

all that is averse to their sense of good, and whose evil power they

must arrest by ceremonies and sacrifices. Thus the Kamoos in cases of

sickness do not give medicine, but offer sacrifices to appease the

spirits, sometimes killing ten or twelve animals over a single

patient.

The Kamoos and Kamates are so nearly related that I will speak of them

as one tribe. I have purposely omitted mentioning them in connection

with the other tribes of people found in Muang-Luang-Prabang, because

there does not appear to be any similarity betwixt them, either in

language, religion or customs. The Kamoos are quite as numerous in

Muang-Luang-Prabang as the Laos: I mean in the province, not the city,

for they are a mountain-tribe. They have no province of their own, but

are slaves, who, though they live among the mountains, must pay their

tribute, each man, to his Laos or Siamese master. They are most

numerous in the province of Muang-Luang-Prabang, but are found in all

the Laos and in some of the Burmese provinces, in the Hau country of

China,[4] and among the independent tribes. They are said to be

harmless and honest. They are ignorant and despised, even by the poor,

wretched people of this country. Their clothing is even more scanty

than that of the almost naked Laos.

Their homes are upon the tops of the mountains, not in the valleys

among the mountains, as are the Karen villages. They cultivate small

portions of ground, which they are not permitted to call their own.

Their diminutive clearings and solitary houses, on or near the top of

steep, high mountains, have a singular appearance, surrounded as they

are with forest and standing in bold relief against the sky. Many of

them, from frequent intercourse with their masters, understand the

spoken Laos language, but they have a distinct language of their own.

They have no written language. Probably not one in ten thousand of

them can read the books of any language. They have a few small

villages, but the majority of the people live in isolated homes. They

have no city of their own. Missionary efforts to reach that tribe

might be made through a native ministry. The superintendence of such a

work, should it be attempted, would require a missionary to reside in

Muang-Luang-Prabang.

We remained six days in that city. It was a season of constant labor

to my associate. Many visited us――probably from motives of

curiosity――but to all we endeavored to present the gospel message.

Drunkenness is a prevailing vice there. Unlike Cheung Mai, the nights

are hideous with revelry. Opium is said to be used very freely――more

so than in any other Laos city. We did not have that sense of security

there that we have felt in all the other Laos cities, and so were glad

when, on the 14th of May, we were able to leave on our homeward

journey.

In concluding this notice of Muang-Luang-Prabang, I will remark that

its usual communication with Bangkok is not by way of Cheung Mai. From

Nakawn-Soowun, twelve days above Bangkok, boats ascend the eastern

branch of the Menam to near its head-waters. The distance is probably

greater than to Cheung Mai. From that head of navigation there is a

land-carriage of eight or ten days to the Cambodia River, and then

about two weeks’ boat-travel against the swift current of that river

before reaching Muang-Luang-Prabang. I presume the usual time from

Bangkok to Muang-Luang-Prabang cannot be less than three months.

We traveled in boats about sixty miles down the Cambodia, seeing

very few villages on the river-bank, except near the city. At Ta

Dua we procured elephants for our land-journey; these were changed

at different stages. For two days our course was through a

partially-cultivated plain, lying parallel with the river and

separated from it by a narrow range of mountains. Passed through six

villages, the largest of which probably contained a population of one

thousand. Six days more of travel brought us to Muang-Nan. Four of

these were consumed in ascending and descending mountains.

Muang-Nan, the chief city of the province of the same name, is a city

of about ten thousand inhabitants. It is situated on the Nan River,

one of the streams which, by uniting with others, form the eastern

branch of the Menam River, where it forks at Nakawn-Soowun. The city

of Nan is about on the same latitude with Cheung Mai, and the river on

which it is situated is nearly as large as the one which flows past

our mission-premises here. Owing to impassable rapids on the Nan

River, travel between Nan and Bangkok involves a land-journey by

elephants of seven or eight days.

The province of Nan is one of the most populous and important of the

Laos provinces. The plain for ten or fifteen miles on every side of

the city contains a considerable number of villages. There is evidence

in the city and villages of comparative prosperity. The rulers seem

more liberal, more desirous of the welfare and prosperity of their

people, than in any other Laos province. The contrast in this respect,

between Nan on the one part and Muang-Luang-Prabang and Muang-Praa on

the other was great. We were more encouraged to revisit that city than

any other. We remained there four days. The lateness of the season and

frequency of the rains hastened our departure.

Going south-westerly, we arrived in Muang-Praa on the 4th of June.

This city is only four or five days’ travel from Muang-Nan, but we

were detained on the way in getting a fresh supply of elephants.

Four days south of west from Muang-Praa brought us to Muang-Lakawn.

This city is about the same in size as Muang-Nan; population probably

nearly ten thousand. It is situated on the Mawang, a river which

unites near to Rahang with the Maping, which goes by our doors.

We reached Cheung Mai on the 21st of June, after an absence of

sixty-seven days. The tour would be a difficult one to make at any

season of the year; it was particularly so at the time we made it. The

heavy rains retarded our progress, and rendered it extremely

unpleasant both by day and night. Our health, however, was but little

affected by these unpleasant experiences, as we escaped with less

sickness than did the natives who accompanied us.

CHAPTER XXX.

_CHINA TO BRITISH INDIA, VIA CHEUNG MAI._

Cheung Mai is one of the five northern Laos provinces belonging to

Siam. This northern Laos country is bounded on the north (lat. 20° 20′

N.) by the Shan states, tributary to Independent Burmah; on the

north-east by some independent Shan states lying between Laos and

Tonquin; on the east by Anam; on the south by Siam. The western

boundary is the river Salween, separating the Laos country from

British Burmah and Karenee. The extreme distance from north to south

is two hundred and twenty miles; from east to west, about four hundred

and twenty miles. The entire population of the five Laos provinces

tributary to Siam is estimated at about two millions. These two

millions are composed of about ten tribes; all of them, however,

excepting the remnants of three or four aboriginal tribes inhabiting

the mountains, are branches of a common stock, the Lou. Each of these

five Lou provinces is a kingdom, the ruler of which is always a native

prince, who can, however, exercise authority only after receiving

investiture from the king of Siam.

Cheung Mai, reckoning all the territory over which the king of Cheung

Mai exercises jurisdiction, is the largest and most populous of the

Laos provinces. A recent census of the houses throughout the province

of Cheung Mai gave the number of ninety-seven thousand, and the census

was not at that time complete; the population of the entire province

is not under six hundred thousand.

The city of Cheung Mai (written Zimme on English maps) is the capital,

and is reached from Bangkok by boat; the distance is approximately

five hundred and fifty miles, and the time required to make the

journey in native boats, propelled by men, is usually fifty days.

The isolation of Cheung Mai, the long, tedious and expensive journey

required to reach it, and the unwholesome climate, are considered by

some sufficient arguments against retaining it as a mission-station.

But there are other considerations worthy of attention, which I wish

to present.

The population of the city of Cheung Mai is estimated at about

twenty-five thousand; the language (with slight and unimportant

dialectical differences) is common to all the Laos people; it is the

commercial centre of all the Laos provinces to the north and

north-east, and also of the Shan provinces to the north. There exists

an extensive trade with Bangkok. Stick-lac, hides, horns, ivory,

cutch, gum benjamin, are among the principal articles of export; these

are exchanged in Bangkok for the products of foreign industry. Trade

with Bangkok is necessarily restricted: the cost of transportation is

too great to admit of a free expansion, the carrying of one ton of

cargo from Bangkok to Cheung Mai costing ordinarily fifty-five

dollars. The fluctuation in prices both in Bangkok and Cheung Mai is

very considerable; the customary rate of interest is two per cent. a

month; the time required for the trader to purchase his cargo in

Cheung Mai and go to Bangkok and return and dispose of his merchandise

is usually six or seven months. In addition to these unavoidable

difficulties, there are other and sometimes greater ones. The

fostering care of government is too freely exercised, arbitrary and

unjust taxes are levied, and other artificial interferences

sufficient, it would seem, to prevent any large investment of capital.

It is hoped, however, that a more intelligent policy will prevail.

Considerable improvement has been made, many restrictions that

formerly existed having been removed, and monopolies are not now so

freely granted to favorites. It speaks well for the enterprise and

sagacity of the Cheung Mai traders that in spite of all these

difficulties they have developed a very considerable exchange market.

The present extensive trade is an indication that Cheung Mai is the

natural centre of what, when properly developed, will amount to an

important commerce. It is not impossible that before many years

steamers will run from Bangkok to Cheung Mai. There seems to be no

real obstacle in the way of light craft propelled by steam

accomplishing the journey in ten or twelve days; the present demand

would justify the necessary outlay as a business speculation, and

steam navigation would unquestionably develop a much larger trade. Sir

Arthur Phayre represents the “Laos traders as industrious, energetic,

possessing a marvelous capacity for traveling as petty merchants, and

longing for free trade.” My own knowledge, after a residence of

several years in Cheung Mai, confirms this official statement.

The agricultural richness of the plain is known. The forests of

valuable timber clothing the hills and mountains are another source of

wealth. A large proportion of the teak-timber shipped from Maulmain

comes from the Cheung Mai forests. The mineral resources of this Laos

country are varied and extensive; deposits of many of the useful and

precious metals are known to exist; iron, copper, zinc, lead, silver,

antimony, nickel and gold are found in greater or less abundance. Coal

has also been found along the river after heavy rains, and petroleum

has also been discovered.

The importance of Cheung Mai is not, however, sufficiently indicated

by a statement of the productions and population of the province. Its

resources can never be fully developed if it is in the future to

remain so cut off from the rest of the world as it always has been.

The problem of a direct trade-route, connecting China with the British

possessions in India, is at the present time attracting much interest.

The route across northern Yunnan, _viâ_ Bhamo, into Burmah has been

sufficiently investigated to ascertain that for overland commerce to

any considerable amount it is impracticable. It remains to discover

the best route possible through the Laos country. To one who is aware

of the extent of the trade that exists and has been carried on for

many generations between Cheung Mai and Yunnan, and of the ready

access to Cheung Mai from Maulmain, the discussion of _the possibility

of discovering a trade-route_ connecting South-western China and

British Burmah seems superfluous. The caravan of Yunnan traders coming

yearly to Cheung Mai clearly demonstrate the existence of _a_

trade-route, and this native track is probably available for a much

more extensive overland transportation of merchandise than at present

exists. The Yunnan caravans bring silk and opium, iron and copper

utensils and other articles, which they exchange principally for

cotton. This caravan-trade has materially increased within the past

few years, though I have been informed that years ago the trade was

much more extensive than it is now. The gradual recuperation of

Yunnan, consequent upon the restoration of order there, probably

explains this recent increase of trade. The fact that a party of ten

or twelve men with a caravan of sixty or seventy mules make this

journey from Tali in Yunnam _viâ_ Cheung Hoong and Cheung Toong, to

Cheung Mai, is a sufficient indication of the safety of the route. A

caravan of sixty mules will ordinarily carry merchandise to the value

of twelve to fifteen thousand dollars, occasionally a larger amount.

Most of the Yunnan traders who come to Cheung Mai come from the

neighborhood of Tali.

The construction of a railroad from Maulmain, _viâ_ Cheung Mai, to

some point in South-western Yunnan would probably not encounter any

physical obstacles more serious than is usually met with in railroad

building. After entering the plain or plateau of Cheung Mai the

engineering difficulties would be of little consequence until the

mountains of Cheung Hoong were reached; and even there the elevation

is not very great and there are no deep gorges, such as are met with

on the Bhamo and Manwyne route. It is probable there are no

insurmountable barriers on this route, and, judging from the accounts

of Cheung Mai and Yunnan traders, there are no serious difficulties to

be encountered. Until there is a scientific survey any expression of

opinion as to the best track is little more than conjecture. From

Cheung Mai to Cheung Rai there are two routes. One explored by McLeod

and others, although not adversely reported upon, is certainly a

difficult route; I traveled over it in 1880 to Cheung San and found

the highest point passed over to be thirty-five hundred feet above the

Cheung Mai plain, and the ascent is abrupt.

The second of the two routes mentioned above has never been described;

until 1880 this route had never been traveled by a white man. In

January of that year I traveled over it, and found it, as I thought,

possessed of advantages over the other road. Proceeding from Cheung

Mai in a northerly direction, following the course of the Maping River

to a point fifty-five miles north of Cheung Mai, thence in a direction

east by north-east, at a distance of twenty miles from the Maping

River we entered a large and fertile plain lying to the east and

south-east of Cheung Rai, and separated from that province only by a

low range of hills; traveling through this plain to the Ma-Kok River,

and following the course of that river, the journey to Cheung Rai is a

very easy one. This plain, situated to the east and south-east of

Cheung Rai, although uninhabited at the time I visited it, was in the

beginning of Laos history the most populous of all their provinces;

ruins of the ancient city which was the capital show that at one time

there must have been considerable wealth in the province. The name of

this ancient city and now deserted province is Muang Fäng. A colony

from Cheung Mai has recently settled in the province. This plain is

distant from the Maping River only about twenty miles, and the highest

point of the divide is twenty-six hundred feet above Cheung

Mai――ascent very gradual. The plain is six hundred feet higher than

Cheung Mai.

A railroad from Cheung Mai (supposing connection between Maulmain and

Cheung Mai already established), following the route indicated above,

would encounter no serious physical difficulties in reaching the

present northern boundary of the Siamese Laos territory.

The project of a railroad from Maulmain to Cheung Mai is now under

serious contemplation, and an exploring party with this end in view is

reported as having left Burmah. But the terminus, instead of at Cheung

Mai, should be either at Cheung Rai or Cheung San. Such a road would

not be a doubtful experiment. The immense resources of this region,

the industry and enterprise, the peaceful and law-abiding disposition,

of the Laos people, are sufficient to guarantee its success. Any

thorough investigation of the subject will show that the natural and

most obvious trade-route connecting British Burmah and South-western

China is through the Cheung Mai province.

The only political difficulties in the way of such a route to the

boundaries of Yunnan would be met with in the so-called “Independent

Shan States” north of Laos. Upper Burmah claims, and fitfully and

viciously exercises, a supremacy over these Shan states, but the

general condition of these provinces is one of political anarchy. The

Burmese policy is to incite one province to make war upon another, and

to foment internal disorder by exactions and tyrannies compared to

which the most unjust and arbitrary measures in the government of the

Siamese provinces are mild. Geographically, these Shan states belong

to Siam, and it is to be hoped that the Siamese authority will be

extended over all the territory lying between the Ma-Kawng (or

Cambodia) River and the Salween up to the Yunnan border. While no one

will pretend to claim anything approaching to perfection in the

administration of the Siamese provinces, the protection to life and

property in them is simply infinitely better than the lawless

condition of the provinces claimed by Upper Burmah. Should the Siamese

authority be extended to the north (as the indications of the past few

years would seem to promise), so as to include all the so-called

Independent Shan states situated between the Cambodia and Salween

Rivers, a degree of law and order would prevail, and, protected from

the attacks and robberies of each other, these tribes would soon begin

to accumulate wealth, for their country is possessed of great

resources.

“Protection” and “annexation” constitute a serious bugbear to any

scheme of railroad building or canal construction in Siam. If the

Siamese and Laos could be convinced that there was no design upon

their possessions, they would not be averse to the opening up of their

country by railroads. It is difficult to believe that the intellectual

and political torpor which has so long characterized Siam is to

continue. The conflict between the old and the new is inevitable; the

numerical majority is, of course, under the influence of ancestral

traditions and inherited beliefs, opposed to all change; but the

constant contact with Western ideas must modify this spirit of

reverence for what is old simply because it _is_ old. Even “far-off

Cheung Mai” is, I confidently believe, soon to awaken out of her long

sleep, and, no longer dreaming of the past, to advance into the better

future.

THE END.

[1] The ceremonies at the cremation of the body of

the late first king lasted from the 12th of March, 1870,

till the 21st of the same month. The king of Cheung Mai came

from his distant home among the Laos Mountains to be present

on the occasion; and the pomp and expense of the ceremony,

for which preparations had been more than a year in

progress, surpassed anything that had been known in the

history of Siam.

[2] This was in 1851. Instruction was _first given

in zenanas in India in 1858_ [or 1857].

[3] Carl Bock.

[4] This is Yunnan

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become

standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling

variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been

left unchanged. Dialect, obsolete words and misspellings were left

unchanged.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like

this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and moved to the end of

the book. Missing quotation marks and missing final stops at the

end of sentences were added. Duplicate words at line endings or

page breaks were removed.

Duplicate words at line endings or page breaks were removed.