broached the subject. He was very anxious to have his son study English.
In my mission work I should be untrammelled. Before leaving us, he
mentioned the matter again. It was this time no courteous evasion when I
told him I would come if I could.—What did it all mean?
Footnote 3:
A public rest-house or shelter, such as Buddhist piety provides
everywhere for travellers, but especially in connection with the
monasteries.
I returned to Bangkok full of enthusiasm for Pechaburī. The more I
pondered it, the greater the offer seemed to be. Beyond my predilection
for a smaller city or for rural work, I actually did not like Bangkok.
Pechaburī, however, was beyond the limits of treaty rights. Permission
to establish a station there could be had only by sufferance from a
government not hitherto noted for liberality. Here was an invitation
equivalent to a royal permit, and with no further red tape about it. I
could see only one obstacle in the way. The senior member of the
mission—the one who was naturally its head—I feared would not approve.
And he did, indeed, look askance at the proposition. He doubted whether
we could trust the promises made. And then to go so far away alone! But
I thought I knew human nature well enough to trust that man. As to being
alone, I was willing to risk that. Possibly it might not be best to ride
a free horse too freely. I would go with my own equipment, and be at
least semi-independent; though the Palat had said that he did not mind
the expense, if only he could get his son taught English.
There could at least be no objection to making an experimental visit,
and then continuing it as long as might seem wise. Pechaburī is within
thirty hours of Bangkok. If taken sick, I could run over in a day or
two. With that understanding, and with the tacit rather than the
expressed sanction of the mission, I began to make preparations.
At last my preparations were complete, even to baking bread for the
trip. I had fitted up a touring-boat of my own, and had engaged captain
and boatmen; when, on the day before I was to start, cholera, which for
some time had been sporadic in Bangkok, suddenly became epidemic. Till
then Dr. James Campbell, physician to the British Consulate, and our
medical authority, thought that with caution and prudence I might safely
go. A general panic now arose all over the land. Dr. Bradley came to
tell me that deaths were occurring hourly on the canal by which I was to
travel. To go then would be to tempt providence. I had earnestly sought
direction, and it came in a way little expected.
The first man I met next morning was Dr. House, coming home from Mr.
Wilson’s. He had been called in the night to attend Mrs. Wilson, who had
been suddenly attacked with “the disease,” as the natives
euphemistically call it, being superstitiously afraid of uttering the
name. Dr. House had failed to check it, and sent me to call Dr.
Campbell. But he was not at home, and did not get the message till near
noon. By that time the patient had reached the stage when collapse was
about to ensue. The disease was finally arrested, but Mrs. Wilson was
left in a very precarious condition.
Meanwhile her little daughter Harriet was also taken ill, and for a time
the life of both mother and daughter was in suspense. The child lingered
on till May 13th, when she was taken to a better clime. On July 14th the
mother, too, ceased from her suffering, and entered on her everlasting
rest.
During these months, of course, all thoughts of Pechaburī had been
abandoned; nor would it then have been deemed wise to travel during the
wet season. Before the next dry season came, Bangkok began to have more
attractions, and I had become less ambitious to start a new station
alone. On the 11th of September I became engaged to Miss Sophia Royce
Bradley, daughter of the Rev. D. B. Bradley, M.D. On December 6th, 1860,
we were married. In my wife I found a helpmeet of great executive
ability, and admirably qualified for the diversified work before us. It
was something, too, to have inherited the best traditions of one of the
grand missionaries of his age.[4]
Footnote 4:
Dr. Bradley’s life would be the best history we could have of Siam
during its transition period. He left a voluminous diary, and it was
from his pen that most of the exact information concerning Siam was
long derived.
Samrē, our mission station in Bangkok, was four miles distant from the
heart of the city. We greatly needed a more central station for our
work. Dr. Bradley offered us the use of a house on his own premises—one
of the most desirable situations in Bangkok—if we would come and live
there. The mission accepted his generous offer. With reluctance I
resigned whatever claim I might have to be the pioneer of the new
station at Pechaburī. We were settled, as it would seem, for life, in
Bangkok.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IV
PECHABURĪ—THE CALL OF THE NORTH
By this time the mission generally had become interested in the
establishment of a new station at Pechaburī. Dr. and Mrs. House were
designated for the post. The Doctor actually went to Pechaburī; procured
there, through the help of our friend the Palat, a lot with a house on
it; and thus committed the mission to the project. But the day before he
was to start homeward to prepare for removal thither, he was so
seriously hurt by a fall from his horse that he was confined to his bed
for several months. It was even feared that he was permanently disabled
for active life. A new adjustment of our personnel was thus
necessitated. Dr. Mattoon had just returned from the United States with
the Rev. S. G. McFarland, the Rev. N. A. McDonald, and their wives. Dr.
Mattoon could not be spared from Bangkok, nor was he enthusiastic over
the new station. Mr. McDonald had no desire for such experiments. Both
Mr. and Mrs. McFarland were anxious to move, but were too new to the
field to be sent out alone. They were urgent that we should go with
them. My opportunity had come. So, early in June, 1861, we broke up the
first home of our married life, and, in company with the McFarlands,
moved on to our new home and our new work.
Our friend, the Pra Palat, seemed pleased that we had come, after all.
His slight knowledge of English had been learned as a private pupil from
Mrs. McGilvary’s own mother. He was glad, whenever he had leisure, to
continue his studies with Mrs. McGilvary. Mr. McFarland preferred school
work. He took the son that I was to have taught, and left me
untrammelled to enter upon evangelistic work. The half-hour after each
evening meal we spent in united prayer for guidance and success. Two
servants of each family were selected as special subjects of prayer; and
these, in due time, we had the pleasure of welcoming into the church.
Of the incidents of our Pechaburī life I have room for but a single one.
As we were rising from the dinner-table one Sunday shortly after our
arrival, we were surprised to see a man coming up the steps and crossing
the veranda in haste, as if on a special errand. He led by the hand a
little boy of ten or twelve years, and said, “I want to commit this son
of mine into your care. I want you to teach him.” Struck by his earnest
manner, we drew from him these facts: He was a farmer named Nāi Kawn,
living some five miles out in the country. He had just heard of our
arrival, had come immediately, and was very glad to find us.
We asked whether he had ever met a missionary before. No, he said, but
his father—since dead—had once met Dr. Bradley, and had received a book
from him. He had begged other books from neighbours who had received
them but did not value them. Neither did he at first, till the great
cholera scourge of 1849, when people were dying all around him. He was
greatly alarmed, and learned from one of the books that Pra Yēsū heard
prayer in trouble, and could save from sin. For a long time he prayed
for light, until, about three years ago, he believed in Jesus, and was
now happy in heart. He had heard once of Dr. Bradley’s coming to
Pechaburī, but not until he was gone again. He preached to his
neighbours, who called him “Kon Pra Yēsū” (Lord Jesus’ man). He had
prayed for Dr. Bradley and the missionaries; he had read the story of
Moses, the Epistle to the Romans, the Gospel of John, a tract on Prayer,
and “The Golden Balance”; and he believed them. He could repeat portions
of Romans and John verbatim; and he had his son repeat the Lord’s
Prayer.
My subject at the afternoon service was Nicodemus and the New Birth. Nāi
Kawn sat spellbound, frequently nodding assent. At the close we asked
him to speak a few words; which he did with great clearness. On being
questioned as to the Trinity, he replied that he was not sure whether he
understood it. He gathered, however, that Jehovah was the Father and
Ruler; that the Son came to save us by dying for us; and that the Holy
Spirit is the Comforter. The difference between Jesus and Buddha is that
the latter entered into Nirvana, and that was the last of him; while
Jesus lives to save. He even insisted that he had seen a vision of Jesus
in heaven. His other experiences were characterized by such marks of
soberness that we wondered whether his faith might not have been
strengthened by a dream or a vision.
This incident, coming so soon after our arrival, greatly cheered us in
our work. His subsequent story is too long to follow out in detail here.
His piety and his sincerity were undoubted. He lived and died a
Christian; yet he never fully identified himself with the church. He
insisted that he had been baptized by the Holy Ghost, and that there was
no need of further baptism. Not long after this Dr. Bradley and Mr.
Mattoon visited Pechaburī, examined the man, and were equally surprised
at his history.
* * * * *
What changed our life-work from the Siamese to the Lāo? There were two
principal causes. The various Lāo states which are now a part of Siam,
were then ruled by feudal princes, each virtually sovereign within his
own dominions, but all required to pay a triennial visit to the Siamese
capital, bringing the customary gifts to their suzerain, the King of
Siam, and renewing their oath of allegiance to him. Their realms served,
moreover, as a “buffer” between Siam and Burma. There were six of these
feudal principalities. Five of them occupied the basins of five chief
tributaries of the Mênam River; namely—in order from west to
east—Chiengmai, Lampūn, Lakawn, Prê, and Nān. The sixth was Lūang
Prabāng on the Mê Kōng River. The rapids on all these streams had served
as an effectual barrier in keeping the northern and the southern states
quite separate. There was no very frequent communication in trade. There
was no mail communication. Official despatches were passed along from
one governor to the next. Very little was known in Bangkok about the Lāo
provinces of the north. A trip from Bangkok to Chiengmai seemed then
like going out of the world. Only one Englishman, Sir Robert Schomburgk
of the British Consulate in Bangkok, had ever made it.
[Illustration:
PAGODA OF WAT CHÊNG, BANGKOK]
Of these Lāo states, Chiengmai was the most important. After it came
Nān, then Lūang Prabāng (since ceded to the French), Lakawn, Prê, and
Lampūn. The Lāo people were regarded in Siam as a very warlike race; one
chieftain in particular being famed as a great warrior. They were withal
said to be suspicious and unreliable.
Almost the only visible result of my six months’ stay within the city of
Bangkok, after my marriage, was the formation of a slight acquaintance
with the Prince of Chiengmai and his family. Just before my marriage he
had arrived in Bangkok with a great flotilla of boats and a great
retinue of attendants. The grounds of Wat Chêng monastery, near to Dr.
Bradley’s compound, had always been their stopping-place. The
consequence was that, of all the missionaries, Dr. Bradley had become
best acquainted with them and most deeply interested in them. He
earnestly cultivated their friendship, invited them to his
printing-office and to his house, and continually preached unto them the
Gospel. They were much interested in vaccination, which he had
introduced, and were delighted to find that it protected them from
smallpox.
The day after our marriage, in response to a present of some wedding
cake, the Prince himself, with his two daughters and a large train of
attendants, called on us in our new home. This was my first introduction
to Chao Kāwilōrot and his family, who were to play so important a rôle
in my future life. All that I saw of him and of his people interested me
greatly. During the short time we remained in their neighbourhood, I
made frequent visits to the Lāo camp. The subject of a mission in
Chiengmai was talked of, with apparent approval on the part of the
Prince. My interest in Pechaburī was increased by the knowledge that
there was a large colony of Lāo[5] there. These were captives of war
from the region of Khōrāt, bearing no very close resemblance to our
later parishioners in the north. At the time of our stay in Pechaburī,
the Lāo in that province were held as government slaves, engaged all day
on various public works—a circumstance which greatly impeded our access
to them, and at the same time made it more difficult for them to embrace
Christianity. Neither they nor we dared apply to the government for the
requisite sanction, lest thereby their case be made worse. Our best
opportunity for work among them was at night. My most pleasant memories
of Pechaburī cluster about scenes in Lāo villages, when the whole
population would assemble, either around a camp-fire or under the bright
light of the moon, to listen till late in the night to the word of God.
The conversion of Nāi Ang, the first one from that colony, anticipated
that of Nān Inta, and the larger ingathering in the North.
Footnote 5:
The application of this name is by no means uniform throughout the
peninsula. From Lūang Prabāng southward along the eastern frontier,
the tribes of that stock call themselves Lāo, and are so called by
their neighbours. But the central and western groups do not
acknowledge the name as theirs at all, but call themselves simply Tai;
or if a distinction must be made, they call themselves Kon Nûa
(Northerners), and the Siamese, Kon Tai (Southerners). The Siamese, on
the other hand, also call themselves Tai, which is really the
race-name, common to all branches of the stock; and they apply the
name Lāo alike to all their northern cousins except the Ngīo, or
Western Shans. Nothing is known of the origin of the name, but the
same root no doubt appears in such tribal and geographical names as
Lawā, Lawa, Lawō—the last being the name of the famous abandoned
capital now known as Lophburi.—ED.
But there was more than a casual connection between the two. My labours
among them increased the desire, already awakened in me, to reach the
home of the race. Here was another link in the chain of providences by
which I was led to my life-work. The time, however, was not yet ripe.
The available force of the mission was not yet large enough to justify
further expansion. Moreover, our knowledge of the Lāo country was not
such as to make possible any comprehensive and intelligent plans for a
mission there. The first thing to do was evidently to make a tour of
exploration. The way to such a tour was opened in the fall of 1863. The
Presbytery of Siam met in Bangkok early in November. I had so arranged
my affairs that, if the way should open, I could go north directly,
without returning to Pechaburī. I knew that Mr. Wilson was free, and I
thought he would favour the trip. This he readily did, and the mission
gave its sanction. So I committed my wife and our two-year-old daughter
to the care of loving grandparents, and, after a very hasty preparation,
we started on the 20th of November in search of far-away Chiengmai.
The six-oared touring-boat which I had fitted up in my bachelor days was
well adapted for our purpose as far as the first fork of the Mênam. The
Siamese are experts with the oar, but are unused to the setting-pole,
which is well-nigh the only resource all through the upper reaches of
the river. It was sunset on a Friday evening before we finally got off.
But it was a start; and it proved to be one of the straws on which the
success of the trip depended. The current against us was very strong; so
we slept within the city limits that night. We spent all day Saturday
traversing a canal parallel with the river, where the current was
weaker. It was sunset before we entered again the main stream, and
stopped to spend Sunday at a monastery. To our great surprise we found
that the Prince of Chiengmai—of whose coming we had had no
intimation—had camped there the night before, and had passed on down to
Bangkok that very morning. We had missed him by taking the canal!
We were in doubt whether we ought not to return and get a letter from
him. A favourable letter would be invaluable; but he might refuse, or
even forbid our going. If we may judge from what we afterwards knew of
his suspicious nature, such probably would have been the outcome. At any
rate, it would delay us; and we had already a passport from the Siamese
government which would ensure our trip. And, doubtless, we did
accomplish our design with more freedom because of the Prince’s absence
from his realm. It was apparently a fortuitous thing that our men knew
of the more sluggish channel, and so missed the Lāo flotilla. But it is
quite possible that upon that choice depended the establishment of the
Lāo mission.
All went well until we reached the first fork at Pāknam Pō. There the
water came rushing down like a torrent, so swift that oars were of no
avail. We tried first one side of the stream and then the other, but all
in vain. Our boatmen exchanged their oars for poles. But they were
awkward and unaccustomed to their use. The boat would inevitably drift
down stream. The poor boatmen laughed despairingly at their own failure.
At last a rope was suggested. The men climbed the bank, and dragged the
boat around the point to where the current was less swift. But when, as
often happened, it became necessary to cross to the other side of the
river, the first push off the bank would send us into water so deep that
a fifteen-foot pole could not reach bottom. Away would go the boat some
hundreds of yards down stream before we could bring up on the opposite
bank. We reached Rahêng, however, in nineteen travelling days—which was
not by any means bad time.
In our various journeyings hitherto we had controlled our own means of
transportation. Henceforth we were at the mercy of native officials, to
whose temperament such things as punctuality and speed are altogether
alien. From Rahêng the trip by elephant to Chiengmai should be only
twelve days. By boat, the trip would be much longer, though the return
trip would be correspondingly shorter. We had a letter from Bangkok to
the officials along the route, directing them to procure for us boats,
elephants, or men, as we might need. We were in a hurry, and, besides,
were young and impulsive. The officials at Rahêng assured us that we
should have prompt despatch. No one, however, seemed to make any effort
to send us on. The governor was a great Buddhist, and fond of company
and argument. He could match our Trinity by a Buddhist one: Putthō,
Thammō, Sangkhō—Buddha, the Scriptures, the Brotherhood. Men’s own good
deeds were their only atonement. The one religion was as good as the
other. On these subjects he would talk by the hour; but when urged to
get our elephants, he always had an excuse. At last, in despair, we
decided to take our boatmen and walk. When this news reached the
governor, whether from pity of us, or from fear that some trouble might
grow out of it, he sent word that if we would wait till the next day, we
should have the elephants without fail.
We got the elephants; but, as it was, from preference I walked most of
the way. Once I paid dear for my walk by getting separated from my
elephant in the morning, losing my noonday lunch, and not regaining my
party till, tired and hungry, I reached camp at night. Our guide had
taken a circuitous route to avoid a band of robbers on the main route
which I had followed! This was my first experience of elephant-riding.
We crossed rivers where the banks were steep, and there was no regular
landing. But whether ascending or descending steep slopes, whether
skirting streams and waterfalls, one may trust the elephant’s sagacity
and surefootedness. The view we had from one of the mountain ridges
seemed incomparably fine. The Mê Ping wound its way along the base
beneath us, while beyond, to right and to left, rose range beyond range,
with an occasional peak towering high above the rest. But that was tame
in comparison with many mountain views encountered in subsequent years.
We were eight days in reaching Lakawn,[6] which we marked as one of our
future mission stations. On being asked whether he would welcome a
mission there, the governor replied, “If the King of Siam and the Prince
of Chiengmai approve.” At Lakawn we had no delay, stopping there only
from Friday till Monday morning. Thence to Lampūn we found sālās, or
rest-houses, at regular intervals. The watershed between these towns was
the highest we had crossed. The road follows the valley of a stream to
near the summit, and then follows another stream down on the other side.
The gorge was in places so narrow that the elephant-saddle scraped the
mountain wall on one side, while on the other a misstep would have
precipitated us far down to the brook-bed below.
Footnote 6:
A corruption of Nakawn (for Sanskrit _nagara_, capital city), which is
the first part of the official name of the place, Nakawn Lampāng. The
Post Office calls it Lampāng, to distinguish it from another Nakawn
(likewise Lakawn in common speech), in the Malay Peninsula—the place
known to Europeans as Ligor. The general currency of this short name,
and its regular use in all the missionary literature, seem to justify
its retention in this narrative.—ED.
At Lampūn my companion was not well, so that I alone called on the
authorities. The governor had called the princes together to learn our
errand. They seemed bewildered when told that we had no government
business, nor were we traders—were only teachers of religion. When the
proper officer was directed to send us on quickly, he began to make
excuses that it would take two or three days. Turning sharply upon him,
the governor asked, “Prayā Sanām, how many elephants have you?” “Four,”
was the response. “See that they get off to-morrow,” was the short
reply. He meekly withdrew. There was evidently no trifling with that
governor. One day more brought us to Chiengmai—to the end of what seemed
then a very long journey. As we neared the city, Mr. Wilson’s elephant
took fright at the creaking noise of a water-wheel, and ran away,
crashing through bamboo fences and trampling down gardens. Fortunately
no one was hurt.
We reached the city on January 7th, 1864, on the forty-ninth day of our
journey. The nephew of the Prince had been left in charge during the
Prince’s absence. He evidently was in doubt how to receive us. He could
not ignore our passport and letter from Bangkok. On the other hand, why
did we not have a letter from the Prince? Our story of missing him
through choosing the canal instead of the main river might or might not
be true. If the deputy were too hospitable, his Prince might blame him.
So he cut the knot, and went off to his fields. We saw no more of him
till he came in to see us safely off.