associate, Dr. Mattoon, had accepted the presidency of Biddle Institute
at Charlotte—now Biddle University (colored). For a time he was very
coldly received except by such broad-minded men as his old Princeton
classmate, and my friend, Dr. Charles Phillips. By virtue, however, of
his noble Christian character and his conservative bearing, Dr. Mattoon
overcame these prejudices, and lived to be welcomed in the largest
churches in the state. I spent most of my furlough in North Carolina;
and personally I received a welcome almost as warm as if I were a
missionary of the Southern Board. Returned missionaries were not
numerous then. It was not an uncommon thing for me to lecture in
churches which had never before seen the face of a foreign missionary.
Soon after our arrival in the United States news came of the resignation
of Dr. Vrooman; and my first duty was to find a successor. For myself,
and even for my family, I could endure to return without one. But I
could not face the distressing appeals from the sick whose ailments I
was powerless to relieve. In my visits among friends in North Carolina I
met a young medical graduate, Dr. M. A. Cheek, who received from warm
friends of the mission flattering recommendations for the place. He
himself was pleased with the opening, and would willingly accept it, if
he could first take a graduate course in surgery. This was easily
arranged, and he was ready to return with us the following summer.
The hardest thing to face was the parting with our children. But the
bitterness of this pang was softened by the kindness of friends which
opened the best of Christian homes and schools to receive them. We can
never sufficiently express our gratitude for the kindness shown us in
this matter by the late Mrs. E. N. Grant and Miss Mitchell of the
Statesville Female College, and to Mrs. McNeill, the widow of my old
pastor.
These two great questions settled, we left North Carolina in March,
1874—my wife with the two younger children, to visit friends and
relatives in the North; and I, as I hoped, to visit the churches and the
seminaries in search of recruits. But a cold contracted on the trip
north ran into a dangerous attack of pleuro-pneumonia, followed by a
slow recovery. Thus I missed my visits to the seminaries and the meeting
of the General Assembly in St. Louis.
The return to the field was by way of San Francisco, and we reached
Bangkok on August 27th, 1874. On November 14th a son was given us to
take the place of the children left behind. In December began our river
journey to Chiengmai. The river was low, and we were a month and a day
from Bangkok to Rahêng. There we found four missionaries of the Nova
Scotia Baptist Board seeking to establish a station among the Karens of
Siam. But they found their villages too small and too widely scattered
to justify the establishment of a station. So they were returning to
Burma. On Saturday night we all dined together, and had a sociable hour.
On Sunday evening we drew up our boats side by side, and had a
prayer-meeting that we shall long remember. There was something
delightful in thus meeting and enjoying Christian fellowship on a
sand-bar, and then passing on to our respective fields of work. Some of
these men afterwards went to India, and started the Telegu mission,
which has had phenomenal success.
There were still the rapids and four more weeks of travel before we
could reach our Lāo home. But the home-coming at last was delightful.
Our faithful old coolie, Lung In, with his wife, met us in a small boat
three days’ journey below Chiengmai, with fruit and fowls lest we should
be in want. Then the tall figure of Nān Inta, with his face like a
benediction!
It was February 7th, 1875, when at last we drew up alongside our own
landing-place, and felt the warm handshake of old friends. Among the Lāo
at last!—and no place that we had seen would we exchange for our Lāo
home. For the first time since our arrival in 1867 we had a permanent
house to enter!
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XV
MÛANG KÊN AND CHIENG DĀO
Dr. Cheek’s arrival was a matter of great rejoicing. He was very
young—only twenty-one, in fact, on the day he sailed from San Francisco.
The trying drudgery that he and others of our early medical missionaries
had to endure, is now in great measure obviated through the help of
native assistants. The remainder of the year 1875 I devoted very largely
to assisting in the medical work, interpreting, helping in operations,
and caring for the souls of the numerous patients, without feeling the
weight of responsibility for their physical condition, as I had done
before. Dr. Cheek came out a single man; but, like others before him, he
lost his heart on the way. Toward the end of that year he went down to
Bangkok, and was married to Miss Sarah A. Bradley. He returned to
Chiengmai just as Mr. Wilson was ready to start for the United States on
his second furlough. The April communion was postponed a week that the
newly-arrived and the departing missionaries might commune together
before separating. It was Mrs. Wilson’s last communion with us.
In May, 1876, Nān Inta was ordained our first ruling elder. The story
has often been told that before his ordination the Confession of Faith
was given him to read carefully, since he would be asked whether he
subscribed to its doctrines. When he had finished the reading, he
remarked that he saw nothing peculiar in its teachings. It was very much
like what he had read in Paul’s Epistles! In January Pā Kamun, the widow
of Noi Sunya, was baptized. It was thus appropriately given to her to be
the first woman received into the communion of the church. Two of her
daughters, and Pā Peng, the wife of Nān Inta, soon followed. Lung In was
elected the first deacon, but was too modest to be ordained to that
office. Meanwhile he was becoming a most useful assistant in the
hospital. Strange as it may seem, the office of hospital nurse is one of
the most difficult to get a Lāo to fill. Lung In, however, was not above
the most menial service for the sick. His real successor was not found
until the present incumbent, Dr. Kêo, was trained. Dr. McKean’s
testimony is that it would be scarcely more difficult to procure a good
surgeon than to fill Kêo’s place as nurse and assistant among the
hospital patients.
During the summer of 1876, in company with Nān Inta, I made a tour among
the four nearest provinces to the north and west. The governor of Mûang
Kên had long given promise of becoming a Christian, and now invited me
to visit his people. On his frequent visits to Chiengmai on business, he
always called on me, and no subject was so interesting to him as the
subject of religion. Before the proclamation of toleration, while the
common people were still afraid of making a public profession of
Christianity, our most effective work was probably that with the higher
class of officials, who stood in somewhat less fear of the known
antagonism of the Chao Uparāt. They were, besides, a more interesting
class than the common people, for they were better educated, were more
accustomed in their daily duties to weigh arguments and decide on
questions of evidence, and many of them had been trained in the
religious order.
This governor of Mûang Kên had learned enough of the tenets of
Christianity to become unsettled and dissatisfied with the prospects of
salvation offered by a purely ethical religion. He saw the weakness of
the foundation on which he had been taught to rely, and the difference
between the authors of the two religions. So he stood on the border land
between the two, at the very gate, wishing to enter in, but with many
obstacles in his way, and strong opposing influences to overcome.
My first objective, then, on this tour was Mûang Kên. The governor had
asked me to come and smooth the way for him by teaching his
under-officials and his townsmen. Nān Inta was the living, concrete
argument, and he put his whole heart into it. We had a few days of
deeply interesting work. Few, however, saw the matter as the governor
did. Most of them “would consider it.” Some would go further and say
that they worshipped Jesus under the name of their promised Buddha
Metraya, yet to come.
From Mûang Kên we went to Chieng Dāo, where we visited the great cave
with its famous Buddhist shrine. Ever since Nān Inta became a Christian,
he had been anxious to test the truth of some of the legends connected
with the place—a thing he dared not do before. The cave is the abode of
the great Lawa spirit, for fear of offending whom Prince Kāwilōrot was
afraid to allow us to build to the north of the city bridge in
Chiengmai. Chieng Dāo mountain, which rises above the cave, is seven
thousand one hundred and sixty feet high—one of the highest peaks in all
Siam, and visible from Chiengmai, some thirty-seven miles away. One of
the sources of the Mê Ping River, twenty feet wide and knee-deep, flows
bodily out from the cave. Since no animal is allowed to be killed in so
sacred a place, the stream abounds in a great variety of beautiful fish
waiting for the food which no visitor fails to give them. The scramble
for it is as interesting to watch as the performance of the sea-lions at
San Francisco.
The legend is that no one can cross the stream inside the cave and
return alive; and that beyond the stream, under the crest of the
mountain, there is an image of pure gold seven cubits high. One enters
the cave at a little distance from the stream, and finds first a grand
chamber which is a veritable temple, with arched dome, natural pulpit,
and innumerable images of Buddha, large and small. This place is
regarded as a most sacred shrine. Buddhist monks are always there
performing their devotions. The chamber is so dark that they have to use
tapers to see to read. The dim light and the long-drawn tones of the
worshippers produce a very weird impression.
From the temple-chamber narrow passages lead off in different
directions, till there is danger of losing one’s way in the labyrinth. I
followed Nān Inta and his sons to the stream, which is reached at some
distance farther on. Being neither tall nor a swimmer, I stopped and
sauntered about in the various rooms, waiting for my companions to
verify or to disprove the legend. Needless to say, both parts of it were
proved myths. My companions did return alive, and no golden image was
found. The cave is too damp to make it safe for one to remain long in
those distant passages. Farther on the tapers burned but very dimly; and
one would not choose to be left there in pitch darkness. We could
understand very well how the legend arose of Yaks that devour those that
intrude into their dark caverns. There is no doubt of the presence of a
deadly gas much more to be feared than the spirit of the great Lawa
king, which is believed to have taken up his abode there. We all
experienced more or less of the symptoms premonitory of malarial attack,
and before we got back to the town Nān Inta was shaking with a genuine
chill. A heroic dose, however, of Warburg’s tincture with quinine soon
set him to rights. In this case, then, as in many others, there is a
foundation of truth at the bottom of the legend.
That night we had a great audience. It was generally known that we
intended to explore the cave, and many, no doubt, came to see how we had
fared. It was well that Nān Inta had so far recovered from his morning’s
chill as to be ready to join in bearing testimony not only to the
falsity of the legend, but also to the truth of the Gospel. It was a
bright moonlight night, and the people listened till very late, while we
sang hymns, preached the Gospel, and pointed them to the better way. The
result was seen years after in the founding of a church there.
All these provinces that we were now visiting, and others more distant
still, were originally settled by refugees driven from the more southern
districts by the persecution for witchcraft. Now they are important
provinces. Since these people had been ruthlessly driven forth because
of the spirits, I thought they would willingly accept any way of escape
from their control. But they seemed, if anything, more superstitious and
harder to reach than others. Having suffered once, as they supposed,
from the malicious power of the spirits, they seemed even more than
others to dread to incur their anger again by deserting them. But there
were many hopeful exceptions.
Mûang Pāo was the next city visited. From the incidents of our stay
there I select the cases of two persons who excited our deepest
sympathy. One was an aged Buddhist monk, a Ngīo, who, with a younger
companion, visited our tent daily. The monk was a venerable man, with
striking features, serene countenance, earnest and intelligent. His long
life had been spent in worship, meditation, and study. All this he soon
told us with some quite natural pride. While not bold, he was not
reticent, freely stating his own doctrines, hopes, and fears, and asking
ours. To the question what were his hopes for a future life, he frankly
said, “I don’t know. How can I? I have tried to keep the commandments,
have performed my devotions, have counted my beads. But whether I shall
go up or down [indicating the directions with his finger] I do not know.
I have done what my books tell me, but I have no light _here_ [pointing
to his heart]. Can the teacher’s religion give me any light?”
The earnestness and the despondency of the man drew me to him. I asked,
what of his failures and transgressions? “That,” he said, “is the dark
point. My books say that all my good deeds shall be rewarded, but the
failures and transgressions must be punished before I can reach Nirvāna,
the final emancipation of the soul by the extinction of all desire.”
“How long will that be?” we ask. He answered by giving a number that
would baffle even astronomers, who are accustomed to deal in almost
fabulous numbers.
“But is not that virtually endless?”
“Yes; but what shall we do? That is what our books say.”
“But is there no room for pardon?”
“No. Buddha only points out the way that he followed himself. He reached
the goal by the same almost endless journey. How shall we hope to do so
by any shorter or different route?”
“But supposing there is a way—that there is a great sovereign of the
universe, before all Buddhas and higher than all Buddhas, who has the
right and the authority to grant full pardon through his own infinite
merit, and his vicarious assumption of all our obligations and payment
of all our debts. Would not that be a joyful message?”
“Yes; if true, it would be.”
And so we argued till light seemed to gleam for once into his mind. But
the image of the dear old man pointing up and then down with the sad
confession, “I know not whither I shall go,” is a vision that has
saddened me many a time since.
The other case of special interest I state as it occurred, with no
attempt at explanation of the dream involved in the story.—On the
morning after our arrival, Nān Inta and I started out to visit
monasteries or houses, wherever we might find listeners. I was dressed
in white clothes, and Nān Inta had on a white jacket. We had made a
number of calls, and were about to pass by a house in which we saw only
an elderly woman and some children, presumably her grandchildren. We
were surprised to see her come down from her house and run out after us,
and prostrating herself with the customary salutation given to priests
and princes, she begged us to stop and come in. We accepted her
invitation, though surprised at her evident demonstrations of joy.
Sitting down on the mat, we began to explain that we were teachers of
religion, pointing out the sure way of happiness both in this life and
in the life to come. Our message was one from the great God and Creator
to all races and nations, inviting them to return from all other
refuges, and He would give them an inheritance as His children in the
life to come. She listened with marked interest as we explained to her
our religion, and urged her to accept it. We were surprised at the
explanation she gave of her intense interest.
Not long before our arrival she had a dream that two men dressed in
white came to her to teach her. What they were to teach her she did not
know; but when she saw us walking up the street she said, “There is the
fulfilment of my dream!” She had watched us as we entered other houses,
fearful lest we should omit hers. Now she was so glad we had come. It
was at least a strange coincidence, for she affirmed that the dream was
before she had ever heard of us. Whatever may have been the cause, it
was a delight to instruct one who seemed to receive all that we said as
a direct message to her. This at once attracted Nān Inta to her, and she
listened to him with frequent exclamations of delight, while he, in his
earnest manner, explained the Gospel message of pardon and life eternal
through Him who liveth and was dead, and behold He is alive for
evermore. She said her one great desire had been to escape from the
punishment of her sins; but she never before had known that there was
any other way but to suffer for them herself. She, too, was a Ngīo. We
visited her frequently during the week of our stay in Mûang Pāo, and to
the last she interpreted our coming as the fulfilment of her dream. This
was the last that we knew either of her or of the aged monk. Before we
visited the place again she was dead, and he had moved away.
In those days when the people were afraid to make a public profession of
Christianity, it would have been a great gain to the mission if we could
have had schools, and used them as a means of evangelizing the youth. A
first attempt, indeed, had been made by Mr. Wilson with a few Burmese
boys. A young Burmese who had been trained in Maulmein, and who spoke
English, was employed to teach them under Mr. Wilson’s oversight, in the
hope that Lāo boys would presently join them. This hope was not
realized, and the experiment was presently abandoned.
The first call for a Christian school was for the education of girls. In
the first Christian families girls predominated. Mrs. McGilvary
collected six or eight Christian girls, and devoted as much time to them
as her strength and her family duties would permit. They were really
private pupils, living on our premises and in our family. More wished to
come than she could do justice to. Hence about this time an appeal was
made for two single ladies to devote their whole time to the school. But
it was not till four years later that Miss Edna E. Cole and Miss Mary
Campbell of the Oxford Female Seminary, Ohio, reached Chiengmai. Very
soon they had twenty pupils. From this small beginning has grown our
large Girls’ School. Two of Mrs. McGilvary’s pupils were soon made
assistants. These and others of the first group became fine women, who
have left their mark on the church and the country.
Notwithstanding our disappointment in the delay of the school for boys,
it proved a wise arrangement that the Girls’ School was started first. A
mission church is sure to be greatly handicapped whose young men must
either remain single—which they will not do—or be compelled to take
ignorant non-Christian wives. Such are a dead-weight to the husband, and
the children almost surely follow the mother. After marriage, the almost
universal custom of the country has been that the husband lives with the
wife’s family. He becomes identified with it, and for the time a
subordinate member of it, almost to the extent of becoming weaned from
his own family. Where all the atmosphere of the family is strongly
Buddhist, with daily offerings to the spirits and gala days at the
temple, the current would be too strong for a father, with his secondary
place in the family, to withstand. For a while it was feared that
Christian girls would have difficulty in finding husbands. But, on the
contrary, our educated girls become not only more intelligent, but more
attractive in manners, dress, and character; and, therefore, have been
much sought after. The homes become Christian homes, and the children
are reared in a Christian atmosphere. The result is that, instead of the
wife’s dragging the husband down, she generally raises the husband up;
and, as a general rule, the children early become Christians.
In August, 1876, our beloved Princess became very seriously ill. Dr.
Cheek had been called upon to treat domestics in the family, but not the
Prince or Princess. Hearing that she was in a critical condition under
native doctors, and fearing the worst, I took the liberty of suggesting
that they consult Dr. Cheek. They seemed pleased with the suggestion,
and asked me to accompany him—which I did for one or two visits. His
treatment was very successful, and soon she was convalescent.
About this same time we had an adventure with white ants which came near
costing us our much-valued cabinet organ. It will serve to illustrate an
experience formerly common enough, and still not unknown. One Wednesday
evening before prayer-meeting Mrs. McGilvary sat down at the instrument
to look over the tunes, when she found it full of white ants. Our house
was built on higher ground, into which the creatures are driven when the
lower grounds are filled with water from the annual floods. They do not
attack the teak walls and floors of our houses, but, climbing up the
posts, at last they stumbled upon the soft wood and leather inside the
organ, and were just beginning their feast when our meeting broke in
upon them. Had we not discovered them then, the instrument would have
been completely wrecked before morning.
Once the white ants destroyed a trunkful of our children’s clothes, once
a box of “knock-down” chairs, and once they attacked my
library—evidently not at all deterred by the learned discussions and
deep thought of Dr. Joseph A. Alexander’s _Commentary on Isaiah_. They
had got through the margin, and would soon have digested the rest, had
not an unexpected occasion for opening the library saved it.
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XVI
SEEKERS AFTER GOD
On New Year’s Day, 1877, I went into the city to make some calls. The
first was at the new palace. In the large reception hall I found the
Princess, virtually alone. She was embroidering some fancy pillow-ends
for the priests—a work in which she was an expert. Her maidens, some
distance off, were sewing priests’ robes. The Prince was in his little
workshop not far off, turning ivory rounds for the railing of an
elephant howdah, a favourite amusement with him.
The subject of religion was one that continually came up in all my
interviews with the Princess; but hitherto she had apparently argued
more for victory than from a desire to reach the truth. She was as keen
as a lawyer to seize a point, and her quick wit made her a very
enjoyable antagonist. Not only she and her domestics, but the whole
country as well, had been preparing for a great occasion of merit-making
in connection with the approaching dedication of a shrine. Whether the
peculiar interest of this conversation was due to the fact that these
matters had been running in her mind, or to some particular mood in
which I found her, I never knew. Most likely it was both. A chance
allusion to the great event which was in every one’s mouth, at once
brought up the question. Stopping her work and resting her arms on the
embroidery frame, she asked, “Why is it that foreigners do not worship
the Buddha or his images, and do not believe that merit is made
thereby?”
She seemed to approach the question as a personal one for herself. If we
were right and she were wrong, she would like to know it. We agreed on
that point, and I encouraged her in her estimate of its paramount
importance to every rational man or woman. If Buddhism does, indeed,
lead to happiness in a future life, she was wise in diligently following
its precepts; but if wrong, it would be a fatal mistake. Why do we not
worship Buddha? Because he was only a man. We reverence his character,
as we do that of other upright men who have tried to do good and to lead
their fellow-men to better things. Gautama Buddha seems to have sought
with all his soul for light—was willing to forsake a kingdom and to
renounce all sensual and even intellectual pleasures in this life for
the hope of escaping sin and its consequences in the next.