partly to blame for our discomfort. We could soon have dispersed the
crowd by giving them to understand that their presence was not wanted.
But we ourselves were on trial. If we had got the name of being
ill-natured or ungracious, they would have left us, probably never to
return. No. This was what we were there for. It gave us constant
opportunities from daylight till dark to proclaim the Gospel message.
The first and commonest question, who we were and what was our errand,
brought us at once to the point. We were come with messages of mercy and
with offer of eternal life from the great God and Saviour. We were come
with a revelation of our Heavenly Father to His wandering and lost
children. While the mass of our visitors came from curiosity, some came
to learn; and many who came from curiosity went away pondering whether
these things were so. Friendships also were formed which stood us in
good stead afterwards when we sorely needed friends. During our time of
persecution these persons would come in by stealth to speak a word of
comfort, when they dared not do so openly.
As the annoyance of those days fell most heavily on the nerves of my
wife, it was a comfort to learn afterwards that possibly the very first
convert heard the Gospel message first from her lips, while she was
addressing a crowd of visitors very soon after our arrival. Reference
will be made to him later, but it may be said here that from the day
when he first heard the news, he never again worshipped an idol.
Whatever was their object in coming to see us, we soon gave every crowd,
and nearly every visitor, to understand what we had come for. We had
come as teachers—primarily as teachers of a way of salvation for
sinners. And we never addressed a crowd of thoughtful men or women who
did not readily confess that they were sinners, and needed a saviour
from sin. But we were not merely teachers of religion, though primarily
such. We could often, if not usually, better teach religion—or, at
least, could better lead up to it—by teaching geography or astronomy. A
little globe that I had brought along was often my text.
I presume that most Christian people in America have a very crude idea
of the method of preaching the Gospel often, or, perhaps, generally,
used by missionaries, particularly in new fields. If they think that the
bell is rung, that the people assemble in orderly fashion, and take
their seats, that a hymn is sung, prayer offered, the Scripture read, a
sermon delivered, and the congregation dismissed with the doxology and
benediction,—they are very much mistaken. All that comes in time. We
have lived to see it come in this land—thanks to God’s blessing upon
work much more desultory than that. Long after the time we are now
speaking of, one could talk of religion to the people by the hour, or
even by the day; one might sing hymns, might solemnly utter prayer, in
response to inquiry as to how we worshipped—and they would listen
respectfully and with interest. But if public worship had been
announced, and these same people had been invited to remain, every soul
would have fled away for fear of being caught in some trap and made
Christians without their consent, or for fear of being made to suffer
the consequences of being reputed Christians before they were ready to
take that step. Forty years later than the time we are now speaking of,
I have seen people who were standing about the church door and looking
in, driven quite away by the mere invitation to come in and be seated.
In one sense our work during the first year was very desultory. I had
always to shape my instruction to the individuals before me. It would
often be in answer to questions as to where was our country; in what
direction; how one would travel to get there; could one go there on
foot; and so on. Or the question might be as to the manners and customs
of our nation; or it might be directly on religion itself. But as all
roads lead to Rome, so all subjects may be turned to Christ, His cross,
and His salvation.
Of the friends found in those early days I must mention two. One was
Princess Būa Kam, the mother of the late and last Lāo Prince, Chao
Intanon. At our first acquaintance, she formed for us a warm friendship
that lasted till her death. Nor could I ever discover any other ground
for her friendship than the fact that we were religious teachers. She
was herself a devout Buddhist, and continued to the last her offerings
in the monasteries. I believe that the Gospel plan of salvation struck a
chord in her heart which her own religion never did. From Buddha she got
no assurance of pardon. The assurance that pardon is possible in itself
seemed to give her hope, though by what process a logical mind could
hardly see, so long as she held on to a system which, as she confessed,
did not and could not give pardon. She was always pleased to hear the
story of the incarnation, the birth, life, and miracles of Christ. She
was deeply touched by the recital of His sufferings, persecutions, and
death. Illustrations of the substitutionary efficacy of His sufferings
she readily understood. She acknowledged her god to be a man who, by the
well-nigh endless road to nirvāna, had ceased to suffer by ceasing to
exist. The only claim he had to warrant his pointing out the way to
others was the fact that he had passed over it himself. There was one
ground, however, on which she felt that she might claim the comfort both
of the doctrines which she still held and of ours, too. A favourite
theory of hers—and of many others—was that, after all, we worship the
same God under different names. She called hers Buddha, and we call ours
Jehovah-Jesus.
She had by nature a woman’s tender heart. Benevolence had doubtless been
developed in her by her religion, till it had become a second nature.
The gifts she loved to make were also a means of laying up a store of
merit for the future. She was most liberal in sending us tokens of
remembrance. These were not of much value. A quart of white rice, a few
oranges, cucumbers, or cocoanuts on a silver tray, were so customary a
sight that, if ever any length of time elapsed without them, we wondered
if the Princess were ill. And, on the other hand, if for any cause my
calls were far apart, she would be sure to send to enquire if I were
ill. The “cup of cold water” which she thus so often pressed to our
lips, I am sure, was given for the Master’s sake.
Another remarkable friendship formed during that first year was that of
a Buddhist monk, abbot of the Ūmōng monastery. As in the other case,
there was no favour to ask, no axe to grind. He never made a request for
anything, unless it were for a book. But the little novice who attended
him almost always brought a cocoanut or some other small present for us.
Very early in our acquaintance he came to see that the universe could
not be self-existent, as Buddhism teaches. On his deeply religious
nature the sense of sin weighed heavily. He was well versed in the
Buddhist scriptures, and knew that there was no place for pardon in all
that system. He understood the plan of salvation offered to men through
the infinite merit of Jesus Christ. At times he would argue that it was
impossible. But the thought that, after all, it might be possible,
afforded him a gleam of hope that he saw nowhere else; and he was not
willing to renounce it altogether.
[Illustration:
TEMPLE OF THE OLD TĀI STYLE OF ARCHITECTURE, CHIENGMAI]
During the dark months that followed the martyrdom of our native
Christians, when many who were true friends deemed it unwise to let
their sympathy be known, the good abbot visited us regularly, as,
indeed, he continued to do as long as he lived. At times I had strong
hopes that he would leave the priesthood. But he never could quite see
his way to do that, though he maintained that he never ceased to worship
Jesus. The only likeness, alas! that I have of his dear old face is a
photograph taken after death, as his body lay ready for cremation. Unto
whom, if not unto such true friends of His as these, was it said, “I was
a hungered, and ye gave Me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave Me drink; I
was in prison, and ye visited Me.—Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one
of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me”?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VII
PIONEER WORK
The military expedition in which the Prince was engaged detained him in
the field until some time in May. It was one of many unsuccessful
attempts to capture a notorious Ngīo chieftain who, turning outlaw and
robber, had gathered about him a band of desperadoes, with whom he
sallied forth from his mountain fastness, raiding innocent villages and
carrying off the plunder to his stronghold, before any force could be
gathered to withstand or to pursue him. In this way he kept the whole
country in constant alarm during the earlier years of our stay in
Chiengmai. What made matters worse was the fact—as the Lāo firmly
believed—that he had a charmed life, that he could render himself
invisible, and that no weapon could penetrate his flesh. Had not the
stockade within which he had taken shelter been completely surrounded
one night by a cordon of armed men, and at dawn, when he was to have
been captured, he was nowhere to be found? Such was the man of whom we
shall hear more further on.
At the Lāo New Year it is customary for all persons of princely rank,
all officers and people of influence, to present their compliments to
the Prince in person, and to take part in the ceremony of “Dam Hūa,” by
way of wishing him a Happy New Year. Because of the Prince’s absence in
the field, this ceremony could not be observed at the regular time; but
it was none the less brilliantly carried out a few days after his
return. The name, Dam Hūa, means “bathing the head” or “head-bath,” and
it is really a ceremonial bathing or baptism of the Prince’s head with
water poured upon it, first by princes and officials in the order of
their rank, and so on down to his humblest subjects.
The first and more exclusive part of the ceremony took place in the
palace, where I also was privileged to offer my New Year’s greetings
with the rest. The great reception hall was crowded with the Prince’s
family and with officials of all degrees. The air was heavy with the
fragrance of flowers which loaded every table and stand. All were in
readiness with their silver vessels filled with water, awaiting His
Highness’ appearance. At length an officer with a long silver-handled
spear announced his coming. The whole company received him with lowest
prostration after the old-time fashion. Seeing me standing, he sent for
a chair, saying that the ceremony was long, and I would be tired. The
Court Orator, or Scribe, then read a long address of welcome to the
Prince on his return from his brilliant expedition, with high-sounding
compliments on its success. Then there was a long invocation of all the
powers above or beneath, real or imaginary, not to molest, but instead
to protect, guide, and bless His Highness’ person, kingdom, and people,
with corresponding curses invoked on all his enemies and theirs. Then
came the ceremonial bath, administered first by his own family, his
relatives, and high officials—he standing while vase after vase of water
was poured on his head, drenching him completely and flooding all the
floor. It is a ceremony not at all unpleasant in a hot climate, however
unendurable it might be in colder regions.
This was the beginning. According to immemorial custom, a booth was
prepared on a sand-bar in the river. To this, after the ceremony in the
palace, the Prince went in full state, riding on an elephant richly
caparisoned with trappings of solid gold, to receive a like bath at the
hands of his loyal subjects—beginning, as before, with some high nobles,
and then passing on to the common people, who might all take part in
this closing scene of the strange ceremony.
I was not in the concourse at the river, but watched the procession from
our sālā, the Prince having said to me that he would call on his return.
This he did, making us a nice little visit, taking a cup of tea, and
listening to the playing of some selections on the organ. He asked if I
had selected a place for a permanent station, and suggested one or two
himself. But I was in no hurry, preferring to wait for the judgment of
Mr. Wilson on his arrival. Meanwhile I was assured that I might remain
in the sālā, and might put up a temporary house to receive the new
family. When I requested his consent to the employment of a teacher, he
asked whom I thought of employing. I mentioned the name of one, and he
said, “He is not good. I will send you a better one,”—and he sent me his
own teacher.
It was a very auspicious beginning. I knew that neither the Siamese nor
the Lāo trusted the Prince very thoroughly; yet every time that I saw
him it seemed to me that I might trust him. At any rate, I did not then
look forward to the scenes that we were to pass through before three
years were gone.
After the first curiosity wore off, many of those who came to our sālā
were patients seeking medical treatment. The title “Maw” (doctor)
followed me from Bangkok, where all missionaries, I believe, are still
so called. This name itself often excited hopes which, of course, were
doomed to disappointment. To the ignorant all diseases seem equally
curable, if only there be the requisite skill or power. How often during
those first five years I regretted that I was not a trained physician
and surgeon! My only consolation was that it was not my fault. When my
thoughts were first turned towards missions, I consulted the officers of
our Board on the wisdom of taking at least a partial course in
preparation for my work. But medical missions had not then assumed the
importance they since have won. In fact, just then they were at a
discount. The Board naturally thought that medical study would be, for
me at least, a waste of time, and argued besides that in most mission
fields there were English physicians. But it so happened that eleven
years of my missionary life have been spent in stations from one hundred
to five hundred miles distant from a physician. So, if any physician who
reads this narrative is inclined to criticise me as a quack, I beg such
to remember that I was driven to it—I had to do whatever I could in the
case of illness in my own family; and for pity I could not turn away
those who often had nothing but superstitious charms to rely on. It was
a comfort, moreover, to know that in spite of inevitable
disappointments, our practice of medicine made friends, and possibly
enabled us to maintain the field, at a time when simply as Christian
teachers we could not have done so. Even Prince Kāwilōrot himself
conceded so much when, after forbidding us to remain as missionaries, he
said we might, if we wished, remain to treat the sick.
In such a malarial country, there is no estimating the boon conferred by
the introduction of quinine alone. Malarial fevers often ran on season
after season, creating an anæmic condition such that the least exertion
would bring on the fever and chills again. The astonishment of the
people, therefore, is not surprising when two or three small powders of
the “white medicine,” as they called it, taken with much misgiving,
would cut short the fever, while their own medicines, taken by the
potful for many months, had failed. The few bottles of quinine which it
had been thought sufficient to bring with me, were soon exhausted. The
next order was for forty four-ounce bottles; and not till our physicians
at length began to order by the thousand ounces could a regular supply
be kept on hand. I have often been in villages where every child, and
nearly every person, young or old, had chills and fever, till the spleen
was enlarged, and the whole condition such that restoration was possible
only after months of treatment.
There was another malady very common then—the goitre—which had never
been cured by any remedy known to the Lāo doctors. I soon learned,
however, that an ointment of potassium iodide was almost a specific in
the earlier stages of the disease. That soon gave my medicine and my
treatment a reputation that no regular physician could have sustained;
for the people were sure that one who could cure the goitre must be able
to cure any disease. If I protested that I was not a doctor, it seemed a
triumphant answer to say, “Why, you cured such a one of the goitre.”
Often when I declined to undertake the treatment of some disease above
my skill, the patient would go away saying, “I believe you could, if you
would.”
One other part of my medical work I must mention here, since reference
will be made to it later. The ravages of smallpox had been fearful,
amounting at times to the destruction of a whole generation of children.
The year before our arrival had witnessed such a scourge. Hardly a
household escaped, and many had no children left. I was specially
interested to prevent or to check these destructive epidemics, because
the Prince had seen the efficacy of vaccination as practised by Dr.
Bradley in Bangkok, and because I felt sure that what he had seen had
influenced him to give his consent to our coming. One of the surest ways
then known of sending the virus a long distance was in the form of the
dry scab from a vaccine pustule. When once the virus had “taken,”
vaccination went on from arm to arm. Dr. Bradley sent me the first
vaccine scab. It reached me during the first season; and vaccination
from it ran a notable course.
The Karens and other hill-tribes are so fearful of smallpox that when it
comes near their villages, they all flee to the mountains. Smallpox had
broken out in a Lāo village near a Karen settlement. The settlement was
at once deserted. Meanwhile the news of the efficacy of vaccination had
reached the Lāo village, and they sent a messenger with an elephant to
beg me to come and vaccinate the entire community. Two young monks came
also from an adjoining village, where the disease was already raging.
These two I vaccinated at once, and sent home, arranging to follow them
later when their pustules should be ripe. From them I vaccinated about
twenty of the villagers. During the following week the Karens all
returned, and in one day I vaccinated one hundred and sixty-three
persons. It was a strange sight to see four generations all vaccinated
at one time—great-grandfathers holding out their withered arms along
with babes a month old.
Success such as this was naturally very flattering to one’s pride; and
“pride goeth before a fall.” I had kept the Prince informed of the
success of my attempt, and naturally was anxious to introduce
vaccination into the palace. The patronage of the palace would ensure
its introduction into the whole kingdom. Having a fine vaccine pustule
on the arm of a healthy white infant boy, I took him to the palace to
show the case to the Prince’s daughter, and to her husband, who was the
heir-apparent. They had a little son of about the same age. The parents
were pleased, and sent me with the child to the Prince. As soon as he
saw the pustule, he pronounced it genuine, and was delighted. His
younger daughter had lost a child in the epidemic of the year before,
and the family was naturally very anxious on the subject. He sent me
immediately to vaccinate his little grandson.
I returned to the palace of the son-in-law, and very carefully
vaccinated the young prince on whom so many hopes were centred. I
watched the case daily, and my best hopes seemed realized. The pustules
developed finely. All the characteristic symptoms appeared and
disappeared at the proper times. But when the scab was about to fall
off, the little prince was taken with diarrhœa. I felt sure that a
little paregoric or some other simple remedy would speedily set the
child right, and I offered to treat the case. But half a dozen
doctors—most of them “spirit-doctors”—were already in attendance. The
poor child, I verily believe, was dosed to death. So evident was it that
the unfortunate outcome could not have been the result of vaccination,
that both the parents again and again assured me that they entertained
no such thought. But all diseases—as was then universally believed among
the Lāo—are the result of incurring the displeasure of the “spirits” of
the family or of the clan. The “spirits” might have taken umbrage at the
invasion of their prerogative by vaccination.
No doubt some such thought was whispered to the Prince, and it is not
unnatural that he should at least have half believed it. In his grief at
the loss of his grandson, it is easy to see how that thought may have
fanned his jealousy at the growing influence of the missionaries.
No year ever passed more rapidly or more pleasantly than that first year
of the mission. We were too busy to be either lonesome or homesick,
although, to complete our isolation, we had no mails of any sort for
many months. Our two children, the one of three and the other of six
years, were a great comfort to us. When we left Bangkok it was
understood that a Mr. C. of the Borneo Company was to follow us in a
month on business of their teak trade. He had promised to bring up our
mail. So we felt sure of getting our first letters in good time. Since
he would travel much faster than we, it was not impossible that he might
overtake us on the way. But April, May, and June passed, and still no
word of Mr. C. or of the mails he was bringing. In July we received a
note from him, with a few fragments of our long looked-for mail. He had
been attacked by robbers below Rahêng, himself had received a serious
wound, and his boat had been looted of every portable object, including
our mail-bag. Fortunately the robbers, finding nothing of value to them
in the mail, had dropped as they fled some mutilated letters and papers,
which the officers in pursuit picked up, and which Mr. C. forwarded to
us. Otherwise we should have had nothing. We could at least be devoutly
thankful that we had traversed the same river in safety.
It was long before we were sure that Mr. Wilson and his family were
coming at all that year. It was at least possible that any one of a
thousand causes might delay them, or even prevent their coming
altogether. Their arrival on February 15th, 1868, was, of course, a
great event.
Not long after this we were eagerly awaiting a promised visit from our
old associate and friend, Dr. S. R. House. Both Mrs. Wilson and Mrs.
McGilvary were expecting shortly to be confined, and the good doctor was
making the tedious journey that he might be on hand to help them with
his professional skill in the hour of their need. Our dismay can be
imagined, when, one day, there appeared, not the doctor, but his native
assistant, with a few pencilled lines from the doctor, telling us that
he was lying in the forest some four or five days distant, dangerously,
if not fatally, gored by an elephant. We were not to come to him, but
were to stand by and attend to the needs of our families. He begged us
to pray for him, and to send him some comforts and medicines.
The accident happened on this wise: The doctor had been walking awhile
for exercise behind his riding elephant, and then attempted to pass up
beside the creature to the front. The elephant, startled at his
unexpected appearance, struck him to the ground with a blow of his
trunk, gored him savagely in the abdomen, and was about to trample him
under foot, when the driver, not a moment too soon, got the creature
again under control. With rare nerve the doctor cleansed the frightful
wound, and sewed it up by the help of its reflection in a mirror, as he
lay on his back on the ground. He despatched the messenger to us; gave
careful instructions to his attendants as to what they should do for him
when the inevitable fever and delirium should come on; and resigned
himself calmly to await whatever the outcome might be.
The situation was, indeed, desperate. We could not possibly hope to
reach him before the question of life or death for him would be settled;
nor could he be brought to us. The best we could do was to get an order
from the Prince for a boat, boatmen, and carriers, and despatch these
down the river, committing with earnest prayer the poor sufferer to the
all-loving Father’s care. The doctor was carried on a bamboo litter
through the jungle to the Mê Ping River, and in due time reached
Chiengmai convalescent, to find that the two expected young missionaries
had arrived in safety before him. After a month’s rest he was able to
return to Bangkok; but not until he had assisted us in organizing the
First Presbyterian Church of Chiengmai.
In the _Presbyterian Record_ for November, 1868, will be found an
interesting report from the doctor’s pen. Naturally he was struck with
the predominance of demon-worship over Buddhism among the Lāo. We quote
the following: