away, where the body of the Prince was lying. The family and officers
and friends were assembled to look for the last time on that noted face.
The last act before placing the body in the coffin was to cover it
throughout with gold-leaf, to give it the appearance of being a Buddha.
But no gold-leaf could disguise that face. The family remained there a
few days, partly for the much-needed rest, but chiefly to await a day of
good augury for carrying the remains to the city.
The day was well chosen for such a pageant as the country had not seen,
to honour alike the departed, and to welcome the succeeding Prince.
There was a long and imposing procession of soldiers, monks, and people
marching to the wailing of the funeral dirge and to the slow, solemn
beat of drums. Near the head of the line, on his elephant, was the
son-in-law, Chao Intanon, soon to be Prince of Chiengmai. Not far behind
came the body of the dead Prince, borne on a golden bier and accompanied
by a large train of yellow-robed priests. Behind this was the vacant
throne, and on it the royal crown, both testifying to the emptiness of
human pomp and power. Then came one leading the horse His Highness used
to ride; and next, his favourite elephant, its huge body covered with
trappings of gold. After these came members of the Prince’s family and
other near relatives.
About ten o’clock the procession approached the city which, by
inexorable custom, may never open its gates to receive the dead—not even
though the dead were he whose word for so many years had been its law.
What a comment on human glory and on the tyranny of superstitious
custom! On reaching the South Gate, therefore, the procession turned to
the right, and passed on outside the city wall to the East Gate. There,
in the Prince’s summer garden, beside the river, his remains lay in
state until the great cremation ceremony a year later. Meantime a lamp
was kept burning at the head and at the foot night and day. A prince was
in constant attendance. Courses of monks chanted the requiem of the
Buddhist ceremonial for the dead. At intervals during the whole night
the beat of the drum resounded through the air, reminding the city that
there lay all that remained of one of its greatest masters.
Prince Intanon, though not yet officially installed, assured me, as soon
as I met him at the encampment, that we were to remain and build our
houses and prosecute our work without let or hindrance. Other princes
and officers were pleased to give the same assurance. With the Prince’s
party there came a large mail from friends in Bangkok, giving full
particulars of the negotiations that were stopped by the sudden illness
of the Prince, and clearing up the questions about which we were so much
in doubt. The interposition of Providence had been so marked that we
could only stand in awe before Him who had so wonderfully led us. For,
after the utmost stretch of my own credulity in trying to trust the
Prince, my final conviction is that, had he lived, he and the mission
could not have existed in the same country. He could never have endured
to see his people becoming Christians—Not that he cared so much for
Buddhism; but it would have been a constant challenge to his autocratic
rule.
In March, while the scenes of this tragic drama were slowly enacting in
Bangkok, and while we were anxiously awaiting the dénouement, we had a
pleasant episode of another kind. One morning we were surprised to learn
from some natives that out on the plain, not far from the city, they had
passed two white foreigners, a man and a woman, and that they were
coming to our house. Sure enough, about ten o’clock, who should ride up
but Rev. and Mrs. J. N. Cushing of the American Baptist Mission in
Burma! What an unexpected pleasure! For three years we had seen but two
white faces outside of our own little circle. Some of our latest news
from home friends was eleven months old when we received it. What a
social feast we did have!
They had started from Shwegyin, Burma, had made a tour west of the
Salwin River, crossed over to Keng Tung, come down by Chieng Sên and
Chieng Rāi, and now called at Chiengmai on their way back to Burma.
Their visit was a real godsend to us in the time of our troubles.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XII
THE NEW RÉGIME
One of the results of the change of government was that we were able to
build permanent houses. For three years and more we had lived within
basket-woven bamboo walls that a pocketknife could pierce, neither
secure nor wholesome nor favourable for our work. They bore silent but
steady testimony that we ourselves did not regard our stay as permanent.
The results of our manner of living were already seen in the impaired
health of the members of the mission. My wife surely could never have
lived another decade in the old sālā with bamboo walls and ceiling,
where the dust from the borers in the wood constantly filled the air and
poisoned the lungs. Mrs. Wilson bore up bravely for five years, until
there was just ready for her reception the permanent house which she was
never to enjoy. As soon as they could, the family started for the United
States on furlough, all thoroughly broken down. After two years of rest
Mr. Wilson alone was able to return to the field, leaving Mrs. Wilson
behind. She never regained her health, and they never saw each other
again. Her departure was a great loss to the mission. She was a gifted
lady, a fine vocal and instrumental musician, and a consecrated
missionary. She left one literary work in Lāo, the translation of
Bunyan’s _Pilgrim’s Progress_, which has since been published.
But as matters then were, there was much perplexing work to be done
before we were at all ready to begin building. I was favoured in getting
a lot of first class teak logs delivered at a very cheap rate. Then the
trouble began. The logs must be hauled up from the river by elephants to
the lot where they are to be sawn. The log is raised and mounted on two
strong trestles. A black line to guide the saw is struck on either side.
Two sawyers stand facing each other across the log, grasping the handles
of a long framed saw with horizontal blade. Then the operation begins.
The saw is pushed and pulled back and forth till the cut is carried
through to the end of the log. This operation is repeated for every
stick of timber put into the house.
But we are already too fast. Where are the sawyers to come from? There
were then no good sawyers among the Lāo. No one dared to learn for fear
of being appropriated by the Prince, or of being compelled to work on
public buildings. There were, however, three pairs of sawyers, debtors
to the Prince, whom he had brought up from Rahêng for his own work.
Whenever not needed by him or by some other person of rank, they were
allowed to seek employment elsewhere. So, at odd times, I was able to
secure their services. But if the Prince needed them, they must at once
drop everything and go. Scores of times our sawyers were called away,
often for weeks at a time, and at the busiest stage of the work.
And now for the carpenter. The Lāo dared not be known as carpenters for
the same reason as that given above in the case of the sawyers. They
would have been constantly requisitioned for government work. There was
in the place only one Siamese carpenter reputed to be a good workman. In
order to get him, I had to advance him three hundred rupees, professedly
to pay a debt, but most likely to gamble with. He was to build by
contract. But he had already received his money, or so much of it that
he was quite independent. He soon slashed and spoiled more timber than
his wages were worth. So, to keep him from ruining the whole, I had to
get rid of him, even at some sacrifice. Just then a Siamo-Chinese turned
up, who took the job by the day under my direction, to be assisted by
some Christians whom we trained thus as apprentices. The house was built
on the plan of the East Indian bungalow—raised ten feet from the ground
on posts, with single walls and a veranda all round. Its large lofty
rooms, screened on all sides by the verandas, make it still one of the
most comfortable houses in the mission. It was more than eight years
from the time of our arrival when we entered it; and even then it was
not finished.
Although the new government was friendly, yet some of the ruling spirits
were in their hearts as hostile as the deceased Prince had ever been,
and without his more noble qualities. There were two in particular who
soon began to show that their secret influence would be against the
mission—and their open hostility, too, so far as they ventured to let it
appear. One was the adopted son of the late Prince, and the other the
new ruler’s half-brother, who had been made Uparāt, or second in power,
when the new Prince ascended the throne. Had these both lived, their
combined influence would have been nearly as formidable as that of
Kāwilōrot. Unfortunately, too, the actual business of the country was
largely in their hands. Prince Intanon was not at all ambitious for
power. He liked nothing better than to work without care or
responsibility in his own little workshop, making fancy
elephant-saddles, and let his half-brother rule the country. During the
following year the adopted son went down to Bangkok to receive the
insignia of his new rank, but never returned. His death was even more
sudden than that of his foster-father. He was taken with the cholera,
and died in a few hours. This left the elder of the two avowed enemies
of Christianity, and the higher in rank and power. To give an
illustration of the kind of spirit we had to contend with in him, I will
anticipate an incident of a few years later.
Two native Karens, ordained ministers, were sent by the American Baptist
Mission to initiate in Lāo territory a work among the Karens, a
hill-people scattered sparsely throughout all the mountain region
between Siam and Burma. The native evangelists brought with them letters
from the missionaries in Burma, requesting us to aid them in getting Lāo
passports. We went with them to the new Prince, and he very graciously
gave direction to his brother to see that passports were issued, stating
not only that the visitors were to be protected and aided as travellers,
but also that they were to be allowed to teach the new religion, and
that people were allowed to embrace it without fear.
I was specially interested that they should succeed in the first village
which they were to visit, for it was the one where I had vaccinated the
whole population during the first year of our mission. Since I had
failed to make Christians of them—partly, as I supposed, on account of
my ignorance of their language, but more on account of the persecution
which followed so soon after—I hoped that when the message was delivered
in their own tongue, with official permission to embrace it, the whole
village might accept the Gospel. What was the astonishment of the
preachers that, instead of being received with the characteristic
hospitality of their race, they hardly found common civility! At last
they learned the reason. The Chao Uparāt had secretly despatched a
special messenger with a letter under his own seal, forbidding any Karen
subject to embrace the new religion. All who did so were to be reported
to him. What that meant, or what he wished them to infer that it meant,
was well understood.
Our readers, therefore, will not be surprised that we found it necessary
to keep an eye on the Chao Uparāt, and to use considerable diplomacy in
counteracting his schemes against the church. It was my policy in those
days to keep up as close an acquaintance as possible with the members of
the ruling family. It was the misfortune of all of them that they were
ignorant;[9] and ignorance begets suspicion. Some of them were naturally
suspicious of the missionaries. They could not understand what motive
could induce men who were neither government officials nor merchants, to
leave a great country and come to live in theirs.
Footnote 9:
This same Uparāt, whose word ruled the country, was unable to write
his own orders.
Two objects were gained by keeping in contact with the rulers. They saw,
then, with their own eyes, and heard with their own ears, what we were
doing. In nearly every interview our one great work was magnified alike
to prince, priest, and people. I have heretofore specially mentioned
princesses, too, as well as princes, in this connection, because the Lāo
have a proud pre-eminence among non-Christian races in the position
accorded to woman. In the family, woman’s authority is universally
recognized. At the time we speak of it was much the same in the
government also. The influence of women in affairs of state was
doubtless greatly increased during the previous reign, when, there being
no sons in the royal household, the daughters naturally became more
prominent. They were trained to understand and to deal with public
business.
I have already referred to the kindness of the elder daughter, now not,
as in former reigns, the head-wife, but the only wife of the new ruler.
By birth she was of higher rank than he; and she was in every way worthy
of the high position she now assumed. Hers was, in fact, the strong
intelligence and steady will that kept her more passive consort from
errors into which he would otherwise have been led. At this particular
juncture she was needed as a check against the Prince’s more ambitious
and less principled half-brother. She had a woman’s instinct to discern
a point, and a woman’s revulsion against lawless acts, even when done by
her own father. In honesty of purpose she and her consort were one, for
his kindness of heart had drawn to him more dependents than any other
prince in the land possessed. The murder of the Christians they both
regarded as “worse than a crime—a blunder.” For the present, however,
there was no indication of the sinister forces which came into play
later. All in authority seemed to be honestly carrying out the orders
from Bangkok concerning the missionary work.
A year was spent in preparation for the ceremonies attending the
cremation of the dead Prince. During the last three months of this time,
everything else in the whole land yielded place to it. Not only was
there requisition of men and materials throughout the province of
Chiengmai; but all the neighbouring states furnished large levies of men
under the personal direction of their princes or officers of rank. Such
occasions offer exceptional opportunities for meeting people from all
parts of the country, for forming lasting friendships, and for sending
some knowledge of the Gospel to distant provinces. In after years I
never made a tour on which I did not encounter friends whose
acquaintance I had made at the great cremation festival.
The preparations were hastened somewhat because of the unsettled state
of the country. Chao Fā Kōlan, the Ngīo freebooter of whom we have
already heard, was still at his old tricks. Emboldened by the death of
the Prince, and the confusion incident to the change of rulers, he had
become more insolent than ever. Villages had been burned within less
than a day’s march from the city. Bands of men, euphemistically called
an army, were levied and despatched to capture him; but long before they
could reach him, he was safe within his stronghold in the mountains.
[Illustration:
A CREMATION PROCESSION]
The dead Prince was born on a Sunday; therefore every important event of
his life must take place on that day, even to the last dread summons,
which is not under man’s control—and beyond that, to the final
disposition of his mortal remains. Sunday, therefore, was the first day
of the ceremonies. On that day the body was removed from the summer
garden to the “Mēn,” where it was to lie in state to receive the homage
of his relatives and subjects until the following Sunday. The morning of
each day was devoted to “merit-making” of various kinds—feeding the
monks, making offerings to them, and listening to the reading of the
sacred books. The afternoons were largely spent in boxing games, a
favourite amusement of the Lāo. The evenings were given up to gambling.
Everything went on according to programme until Thursday morning, when
the festivities were rudely interrupted. Chao Fā Kōlan, the bandit
chief, taking advantage of the occasion, made one of his sudden forays
to within so short a distance of Chiengmai that he actually had posted
on the city gates during the night an insolent manifesto to the effect
that the assembled Princes need not trouble themselves further with the
cremation of the dead Prince. He and his band would attend to that! The
news produced a tremendous panic. The whole business of the cremation
was incontinently stopped. A force was sent out after the marauder—with
the usual result. Before the end of the week, however, the panic had
sufficiently subsided to permit the ceremonies to be resumed. The
cremation itself was carried out on the following Sunday as planned.
During all these years the demand for medical treatment, and the
opportunity which its exercise brings, had been constantly growing. I
made, for example, a second trip to Lampūn, this time at the call of the
Chao Uparāt of that city. The poor man had consumption, and at first
sent to me for some foreign medicine, thinking that would surely cure
him. Judging from his symptoms as reported, I sent word that I could not
cure him; that the soothing mixture which I sent was sent in hope that
it might give him a few nights’ rest; but that was all I could do.
Presently he sent an elephant with a most urgent appeal that I come to
see him. I was glad of the call, for it gave me the opportunity of
directing a dying man to something even more urgently needed than
medicine. I spent a few days with him, and visited all of the leading
families and officials of the place, establishing most valuable and
friendly relations with them.
Long before this time, both the demand for medical treatment and the
responsibility involved far exceeded what any person without complete
professional training could undertake to meet. We had urged upon our
Board the claims of our mission for a physician. The following touching
appeal, which appeared in the _Foreign Missionary_ for March, 1870, was
made by Mr. Wilson not long after the death of his son Frank. After
sending an earnest appeal from Nān Inta for helpers, Mr. Wilson says:
“Of course Nān Inta’s call for help includes in it a Christian
physician. Who will respond? I am convinced there are many young
men in the medical profession whose love for Jesus and whose
sympathy with human sufferings are strong enough to bring them
all the way to Chiengmai, if they will but yield themselves to
this constraining influence. Christian physician, you are
greatly needed here. The missionary’s family needs you. This
suffering people needs you. You were needed months since, when a
voice so sweet and full of glee was changed to piteous shrieks
of pain. You were not here to give relief; and if you now come,
it will not greet you, for it is hushed in death. You are needed
here _now_. A plaintive cry comes to me as I write. It is the
voice of our dear babe, whose weak condition fills our hearts
with deepest anxiety. May I not interpret this plaintive cry as
addressed to you? It is the only way that M. has of saying to
you, ‘Come to Chiengmai.’ When you arrive, she may be sleeping
beside her little brother. But you will find others, both old
and young, whose pains you may be able to soothe, and whose
souls you may win from the way that leads to eternal death.”
Great was our joy, therefore, when, in the summer of 1871, we learned
that Dr. C. W. Vrooman, from Dr. Cuyler’s church in Brooklyn, had
responded to our appeal, and already was under appointment of our Board
for Chiengmai. His arrival was delayed somewhat because it was thought
unsafe for him to make the river trip during the height of the rainy
season. So it was January 22d, 1872, before we welcomed him to
Chiengmai. He came with high credentials as a physician and surgeon with
experience both in private and in hospital practice. He began work on
the day of his arrival. He found Nān Inta at the point of death from
acute dysentery; and his first trophy was the saving of that precious
life. Had he done nothing else, that alone would have been well worth
while. One or two operations for vesical calculus gave him such a
reputation that patients came crowding to him for relief. In his first
report he writes:
“I was very glad to commence work as soon as I arrived in the
field. The number was large of those who came to the brethren
here for daily treatment; and such is the reputation which they
have established for themselves as physicians, that the demand
for our professional services is greater than we can properly
meet. I am satisfied that the demand for a medical missionary
here was not too strongly urged by the brethren in their earnest
appeals to the Board.
“I have already had much professional work to do, and while I am
ministering to physical ailments, Brother McGilvary, who is
kindly my interpreter, has opportunity to break unto many the
bread of life.... Two men have just left who came a long
distance, hoping we could bring to life a brother who had died
hours before.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XIII
EXPLORATION
Not long after Dr. Vrooman’s arrival it was decided to undertake our
first extended tour. It was important to ascertain the size and
population of our whole field; and this could be accomplished only by
personal exploration. A journey for this purpose would, of course,
afford abundant opportunity for preaching the Gospel; it would, besides,
give the doctor a needed change, and would effectually advertise his
work. Our objective was Lūang Prabāng, then one of the largest of the
provinces of Siam, as it was also the most distant one. A journey to it
seemed the most profitable that could be made during the time at our
disposal, and the most comfortable as well, since a large stretch of it
could be made by boat. It was already too late in the season to
accomplish all that we desired; but “half a loaf is better than no
bread.” It might be years before a longer trip could be made. As a
matter of fact, it was sixteen years before I visited Lūang Prabāng
again.
The Prince gave us a passport, sending us as his guests to be
entertained without expense; though, of course, we always paid our way.
Our letter stated that we went as teachers of religion and as physicians
for the sick. It was a virtual proclamation for all the sick to apply to
us for treatment. This gave frequent occasion for retort that we did not
remain long enough to comply with our letter. We could only reply by
pointing to the clouds and the long journey ahead.
The party consisted of Dr. Vrooman, myself, a cook, a body-servant, and
eight carriers, with a newly-baptized convert as the only available
assistant in the religious work. The elephants required for our
transportation over the first stage of our journey—to Chieng Rāi—we had
secured, for a wonder, without effort, and very cheaply. Their owner was
anxious to get them out of the country to escape an epidemic which then
was prevalent. The start was on April 15th, 1872, after a heavy storm
which ushered in the rainy season. This was my first trip over the road
to Chieng Rāi, afterwards so familiar to me. After leaving the plain of
Chiengmai, the road ascends the valley of the Mê Kūang River, fording
that stream no less than forty-nine times before it reaches the summit,
3100 feet above sea-level, the watershed between the Mê Ping and the Mê
Kōng.[10] Thence it descends to the Mê Kok at Chieng Rāi. The owner of
our elephants travelled with us, and was unnecessarily tender to his
beasts. In consequence we were ten days making this stage of the trip,
which afterwards, with my own elephants, I used to make in less than
six. On this trip I walked almost the whole distance.
Footnote 10: