Buddha groaned under his own load of guilt, and was oppressed by the sad
and universal consequences of sin among men. The Christ challenged His
enemies to convince Him of sin, and His enemies to this day have
confessed that they find no sin in Him. Buddhists believe that Buddha
reached Nirvāna after having himself passed through every form of being
in the universe—having been in turn every animal in the seas, on the
earth, and in the air. He did this by an inexorable law that he and
every other being is subject to, and cannot evade. Our Jehovah-Jesus, as
our Scriptures teach, is the only self-existent being in the universe,
and Himself the cause of all other beings. An infinite Spirit and
invisible, He manifested Himself to the world by descending from heaven,
becoming man, taking on our nature in unison with His own holy nature,
but with no taint of sin. He did this out of infinite love and pity for
our race after it had sinned. He saw there was no other able to save,
and He became our Saviour.
And take the teachings of the two systems—which is the more credible?
The sacred books of the Princess teach that there is no Creator.
Everything, as the Siamese say, “pen ēng”—comes to be of itself. All
this complicated universe became what it is by a fortuitous concurrence
of atoms, which atoms themselves had no creator. We come as honest
seekers for truth. We look around, above, beneath. Everything seems to
imply the contrivance of mind. The sun rises and sets with greater
regularity than our clocks strike the hour of noon. The seasons follow
each other with wonderful uniformity. Animals are born and die, plants
and trees grow and decay, each after its kind, and in wonderful
adjustment to the conditions about them. The eye is made for seeing, the
ear for hearing, and the air for breathing. Light is necessary for work
by day, and darkness for sleep by night. This city has its walls and
gates; this palace has its beams, its roof, its doors and windows, and
its different apartments, because it was so planned. The Princess gives
her orders, and her servants in distant villages come at her summons.
The Prince’s command is obeyed throughout all his dominions. Subjects
obey because they are under constituted authority. Even so we obey
Jehovah and not Buddha, because we believe that He is the Creator and
the sovereign Lord of the universe.
In His word—His letter to our race—He claims to be Creator and Lord. We
read His word, and then we look around for evidence as to whether this
is really so. We find that evidence in earth and sea and sky. A letter
comes from the King of Siam. How do we know that it is really his? It
has his seal. Not otherwise “the heavens declare the glory of God, and
the firmament showeth His handiwork.” By faith, then, we believe that
the worlds were made, as His word tells us. We read the account of that
creation. What wonderful beings we are!—made in His image, endowed in
our degrees with His own attributes, and with authority over the world
in which He has placed us. He has given us dominion over all the beasts
of the earth, the fowls of the air, and the fish of the sea. Every time
that a Buddhist kills a fish or a fowl, he sins, because he breaks a
command of his religion. Why not so for a Christian? Because these
creatures were made for man’s use, and were given to him. We partake
with gratitude of the gifts our Father has provided for us. This one
great truth, when received by Christians, relieves the conscience of one
of the greatest burdens that the followers of Buddha must bear.
But if God made man in His image, why all this suffering that we see and
feel? The best explanation ever given is that given in the Bible. Man
was created holy, and was put on trial. He transgressed. A subject who
disobeys the law of his sovereign incurs his displeasure. He suffers for
it. We are suffering from this disobedience of our first parents by a
law that we daily see exemplified. A man by extravagance or vice
squanders his estate. His children are born penniless. The Prince of
Wieng Chan rebelled against the King of Siam. His country was conquered
and laid waste, and thousands of its inhabitants were made captive and
deported. Thousands of the descendants of these captives are now serfs.
Why are they so? Because of the errors or misfortunes of their
ancestors. The Prince appoints a governor over a province, with the
promise that if he is faithful, his children shall succeed him. Because
of misdemeanor he is deposed. His descendants are born subjects and not
rulers. We belong to a fallen race.
Somana Gautama belonged to the same race. He groaned under its pains and
penalties. He saw a race sunk in misery. He saw its religion shamefully
corrupt. He inaugurated one of purer morality. But he does not profess
to be divine or a saviour. His religion does not offer a sufficient
remedy. By asceticism and self-mortification it would extinguish all
noble desire as well as the vicious instincts with which we are born.
And then, after interminable cycles of transmigrations, we may hope to
reach a state of unconscious sleep. Happiness and misery are inseparable
things. We escape the one only by escaping the other. That is the dark
prospect which makes Buddhism so pessimistic. To this the Princess
assented, “That is so.”
Now compare this with the religion of Jesus. The sovereign Father who
loves His wandering, sinful children, in His infinite wisdom devised a
plan that satisfies their needs and desires, “God so loved the world
that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish, but have everlasting life.” Our Maker became our
Redeemer by emptying Himself of His glory and becoming man. He is
Himself the greatest possible illustration of the love of God to the
race. He came to reveal the Father. His holy life we have in His word.
He set us the only perfect example, full of pity toward the miserable
and the sinful. Then, by a painful and shameful death, He became Himself
a sacrifice for the sins of the world. He obeyed the law which we had
broken, and which condemns us; and suffered in our stead the penalty due
to us. He conquered death. He took away the sting of death by taking
away sin. He arose from the dead, showing Himself for many days. He
ascended to heaven before the eyes of His disciples. He has sent His
servants and His word to offer a full and free pardon to all who will
accept. He is now, and ever will be, our intercessor in heaven. He sends
His Spirit to purify and fit us for an endless state of conscious
existence which begins at death, and not cycles after. Millions of the
best men and women the world has ever seen have given their testimony to
the reality of this salvation by a triumphant death, with the assurance
that all sin and all suffering were past. Jesus removed the curse, and
brought to light the immortality which we had forfeited by sin. The
missionary and his associates have left both parents and children that
they might offer this to the Princess and to her people.
To all of this the Princess was mainly a most interested listener. She
had asked to be taught. She put no captious questions. I have omitted an
occasional assent that she gave, and an occasional difficulty or
doubt—not all of which could be fully answered; as, for example, why an
all-powerful God allowed the entrance of sin, and now allows wicked
spirits to tempt us; or that other sad question, why the Gospel had not
been sent to them, so that they might have known this from childhood—a
question the burden of which should press on my readers as well as on
the missionary.
At last, after a long pause, the Princess made a wonderful confession,
the very words of which I can never forget:
“Tā chak wā dūi kwām ching, kā han wā paw krū ko tūk lêo.” To speak the
truth, I see that the father-teacher is right. “Kā chûa wā kong chak mī
Pra Chao ton dai sāng lōk.” I believe there surely must be some divine
Lord who made the world. “Lê bat nī ko chûa tī paw krū atibāi dūi kān
pon tōt dōi Pra Yēsū.” And now I believe what the father-teacher has
explained about escape from punishment through the Lord Jesus. And then,
sadly—almost despairingly—she added, “Tê chak yīa cha dai?” But what
shall I do?—I fear it will not be well to forsake “hīt paw hoi mê”—the
customs of my father, the foot-prints of my mother.
We were sitting in the new brick palace—the first ever built in the
country. In the hall was a large pier-glass with numerous other foreign
articles, most of them bought in Bangkok, and brought up for offerings
at the coming dedication of the shrine. I asked, “Princess, did your
father or grandfather have a brick palace like this?” Somewhat surprised
at the question, she replied, “No.” “And I see the Princess riding down
to the landing every day in a foreign carriage. Did your ancestors do
that?” Before I could make the application, she blushed, perceiving that
she was caught. I went on: “You do daily forsake old customs, and adopt
new ones which your ancestors never knew. The whole method of government
is changing. This foreign cloth, which your maidens are sewing for
priests’ robes, was all unknown to your forefathers. These things all
come from lands where the people worship neither the Buddha nor the
spirits. These are only some of the fruits that grow on the tree. Better
still, plant the tree; for all good fruit grows on it.” Just then our
long conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the Prince, who had
worked till he was tired. He asked what she and the teacher were talking
about so long. She replied that we were discussing “bun lê bāp”—merit
and sin.
The question often came up after this. She was in a position where it
was, humanly speaking, almost impossible for her outwardly to forsake
the customs of the country. But I have reason to know that on that
morning she received truths which she never forgot. We have seen before
that neither she nor her husband approved of her father’s act in
murdering the Christians. She continued a warm friend to the last, and
so did the Prince.
On my way home that same forenoon I had another interesting talk with
our dear old friend, the abbot of the Ūmōng monastery, who had been so
true to us during our troubles. On the gate-posts, as I entered, were
offerings of fruit, rice, betel, etc., to propitiate the spirits. This
is in flat violation of one of the fundamental precepts of Buddhism,
which declares that any one who makes offerings to spirits is outside of
the pale, or, as we should say, is virtually excommunicate. Of course,
my abbot friend exculpated himself from all complicity in the offerings.
He himself neither worshipped nor feared the spirits. But his disciples
and parishioners did, and he could not withstand them. He, too, never
gave up the form of Buddhism, but he claimed that he worshipped Jesus
daily as the great Creator and Benefactor of our race. His merit he
believed to be infinitely greater than that of Buddha, whom he knew to
be a man. The abbot was a man of broad mind, and a true and faithful
friend. It is well that it is not for us to say how much of error is
consistent with true discipleship, even in Christian lands. I know that
his deep-rooted friendship for us was because we were teachers of a
religion that offered hopes which Buddhism does not give. I have in mind
many others, also, who believed our doctrine, though they were never
enrolled in our church; and not a few that would urge others of their
family and friends to take, as Christians, the open stand which, from
various causes, they themselves were prevented from taking. But the Lord
knoweth them that are His.
The great event of the year 1877 was the dedication of a Buddhist shrine
recently rebuilt on Doi Sutēp, the noble mountain which is the pride and
glory of Chiengmai. From the level of the plain, and at a distance of
but four miles westward from the city, the mountain rises in a single
sweep four thousand five hundred feet, forest-crowned to its very
summit, seamed with rushing brooks, and embroidered with gleaming
waterfalls. In the rainy season the play of cloud and vapor, of sunshine
and storm about its mighty mass, forms an ever-changing picture of
surpassing beauty and grandeur. The Siamese and the Lāo are very fond of
an imposing setting and a commanding view for their temples and
shrines—on bold promontories by sea or river, on high knolls and
summits. The one on Doi Sutēp crowns a projecting shoulder or bastion of
the mountain, some half-way up, and visible from all parts of the
Chiengmai plain. Each reigning Prince has been desirous of doing
something to beautify and enrich this shrine. To rebuild it was,
therefore, an attractive idea to Prince Intanon at the beginning of his
rule.
[Illustration:
AN ABBOT PREACHING]
To do honour to the occasion, and to make merit thereby, all the
northern states, as far east as Lūang Prabāng, sent their highest
officials with costly offerings; and the government of Siam sent a
special representative. For weeks and months previously the whole
country had been placed under requisition to make preparations.
Offerings were levied from every town, village, and monastery, and, I
believe, from every household. Each guest of honour had a temporary
house built for him at the foot of the mountain, with smaller shelters
for persons of less rank. Nearly all the princes and nobles of Chiengmai
joined the encampment at the base of the mountain, and thither, also,
was the city market removed, so that our housekeepers had to send four
miles to market!
I had intended to pitch a tent near the encampment, so as to be near the
people for missionary work. But a rheumatic attack during the opening
days of the festival prevented. Still, we had as many visitors at home
as we could attend to, and under conditions more favourable for
missionary work.
Such occasions are very attractive to the Lāo people. For the time being
the prohibition against gambling is removed, and they make the most of
it. It may seem a queer way of making merit, but the theory is that
their merit earns them the right to a good time for once. Thousands of
rupees change hands on such occasions. The mornings are given to making
offerings, the afternoons to boxing and games, and the nights to
theatricals and gambling. I was glad that I was prevented from pitching
my tent in the midst of the noise and revelry. All those interested in
religion were the more free to call and converse with us apart from the
princes and the rabble. Officers and monks from a distance were always
especially welcomed, and few of them in those days returned to their
homes without calling on the foreign teacher.
I did not get off on a long tour that season, being unable to secure an
elephant. It was better so, however, for early in May Dr. Cheek went to
Bangkok to consult a physician, and went on thence as far as Hongkong.
It was April 30th of the next year before he got back to Chiengmai. And
the season proved to be one of the most unhealthy in the history of the
mission. Worst of all, we had only six bottles of quinine to begin the
season with. There was a rush for the quinine, and it seemed cruel to
withhold it so long as any was left. The fever was of a violent type,
and often fatal. Native doctors were helpless before the scourge. On
looking about me for a substitute for quinine, I found that arsenic was
the next best remedy, and that Fowler’s Solution was the best form for
administering it. But we had not a drop of the solution. We had,
however, a bottle of arsenious acid, and a United States Dispensatory,
so that I had to become pharmacist as well as doctor. I had all the
ingredients save one, an unessential colouring matter. So I made it up
by the quart. But it was not a medicine to be trusted in native hands.
They were accustomed to take their own medicine by the potful, and had
the theory that if a little is good, a great deal would be better.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVII
THE RESIDENT COMMISSIONER
In this same year, 1877, there occurred an event of utmost importance to
the mission and to the whole country. We have seen that, up to the death
of Prince Kāwilōrot, those Lāo provinces which are now a part of Siam
had been virtually free states. The Siamese yoke had been very easy.
They had never been conquered in war. Their original association with
Siam had been a voluntary one, in order to escape the oppressive rule of
Burma. Their location and their weakness made it a necessity that they
should look to one of these rival kingdoms for protection against the
other. At the same time, they added both dignity and strength to the one
on which they leaned—they served it as a buffer against the other.
Nature had connected the Lāo country more intimately with Siam. All its
communication with the sea was through the Mênam Chao Prayā and its
tributaries, while a range of lofty mountains separated it from Burma.
In race and language too, they were Siamese, and not Burmese.
The relation had been mutually beneficial. Both parties recognized the
advantages of the arrangement, and were satisfied. The balance of real
advantage had been to the weaker states. Their chiefs, indeed, were
required to make triennial visits to the Siamese capital, to present
there a nominal tribute, and to renew their oath of allegiance. But with
this exception they were virtually free. In his own country the Prince
had absolute rule. The Siamese had never interfered with, or assumed
control of, the internal affairs of the North Lāo states. It will be
remembered that the sanction of the Siamese government to the
establishment of the mission was given only after the Lāo Prince had
given his.
It was probably an inevitable result that the stronger power should in
time absorb the weaker. And the course of events had been tending that
way. The forests of teak on the upper branches of the Mênam were too
valuable to be concealed or to remain profitless. The world needed the
timber, and was willing to pay for it. The country needed its value in
money. The Burmese of Maulmein, who were British subjects, had skill in
working out the timber, which the Lāo had not. With money and valuable
presents they tempted the Lāo rulers, who formerly had absolute
authority over the forests, to grant them concessions to cut the timber
and market it in Bangkok. Both parties were avaricious, and both were
probably crooked. Larger bribes sometimes induced a Lāo ruler to issue a
second concession to work a forest already assigned to an earlier
applicant. The result was a constant succession of lawsuits brought by
British subjects against the Lāo. Since the Lāo states were
dependencies of Siam, the Siamese government was often called upon to
enforce judgment against them; while the Lāo felt that the Siamese
suzerainty ought to shield them from such attack. Siam was now come to
be in fact the buffer between the Lāo and the outside world. Instead of
the pleasant relations which had hitherto existed between the two
peoples, there was now constant friction.
Up to the time when Prince Kāwilōrot gave his public and official
promise before the United States Consul and the representative of the
Siamese government, in the little sālā at the landing-stage of Wat Chêng
in Bangkok, no foreign power other than the English had had any claim on
the Lāo or any contact with them. It was only the impolitic act of
killing the Christians which brought the Lāo Prince into conflict with
the representative of the United States government. The fact that it was
the missionaries who were immediately concerned had nothing to do with
the question. Had the agreement been made with American citizens in any
other capacity or business, the obligation would have been the same. The
Siamese government recognized the obligation, and, as we have seen,
guaranteed the continuance of the mission. And that guarantee was an
additional reason for having an official representative of Siam resident
in Chiengmai.
Had the new Prince been as strong as he was mild and good, and had the
Chao Uparāt been like him, it is possible that the old feudal relation
might have continued another generation or two. No doubt the Siamese
government thoroughly trusted the loyalty of the new Prince; but it did
not regard him as a man sufficiently strong to hold the reins of power
at that juncture. Moreover, all the business of ruling was largely given
over to the Uparāt; and he in a number of ways had shown his opposition
to our work and his jealousy of the English and of foreigners generally.
When news reached us first that a High Commissioner was appointed, and
then that he was on the way, there was great anxiety to know what stand
he would take with reference to Christianity.
Prayā Tēp Worachun proved to be an admirable selection for Commissioner.
He had many of the qualities of a statesman. He was cool, calm, patient,
and wise. Judging from the result, it is evident that his instructions
were: to be conservative; to make no rash or premature move; and to
uphold the royal authority conjointly with the old princely
rule—peaceably, if possible, but firmly—till Siam could assume complete
control. Meanwhile he was to follow the English plan of governing
through the native rulers. He was willing to bide his time. Every new
assumption of power on the part of Siam was reluctantly yielded by the
Lāo. But everything conspired to favour the policy of Siam. The Lāo
Prince was passive and unambitious. For the Uparāt no one felt the
reverence or the fear that all had felt for the late Prince Kāwilōrot.
The Commissioner’s fairness and business integrity enabled him to
maintain himself perfectly in his difficult position between the two
branches of the Tai race, and amid the conflicting interests of the
time.
In religion the new Commissioner was a stoic. His boast was that he
needed no other religion than to be loyal to his king, and upright and
just in his dealings with men. Virtue was its own reward, and vice was
its own punishment. He accepted Gibbon’s conclusion that all religions
are alike good for the state, alike true for their adherents, and alike
false for the philosopher. He encouraged Christianity because it taught
a good morality and made good citizens. But he could see neither the
possibility nor the necessity of an atonement for sin. On one point I
should say we were in full accord. In his opposition to the
spirit-worship of the Lāo he was almost rabid. He sympathized deeply
with the poor people accused of witchcraft, who were driven out of the
country.
During the absence of Dr. Cheek and Mr. Wilson with their families, I
should have been utterly unable to cope with the situation, had it not
been for my wife’s clear business talent and tact in planning. The
little girls, too, had begun to show somewhat of their mother’s aptitude
for work.
Meanwhile the fever scourge continued to spread and increase in
violence. The progress of the disease was so rapid that often the person
attacked would never rally at all. An interesting example of the way in
which healing of the body sometimes opened the way to the healing of the
soul, is seen in the case of Sên Kam, an officer who was in charge of
all the irrigation works on the Doi Saket plain, and who one day was
brought to my gate, as it was supposed, to die. The new medicine quickly
checked his fever, and presently he began to study in Siamese the
Shorter Catechism, Genesis, and the Gospel of John. In due time he
returned home a believer. But his desertion from Buddhism caused such
opposition in his province that his baptism was delayed. His family were
so shaken that some of them wished to return to the old worship. But one
young granddaughter of twelve or thirteen years had begun to read our
books and to attend our services. She refused to return to the
monastery, and would run away from it to the chapel. She persevered
until she brought back the whole family into the Christian fold.
In further illustration of the crowded experiences of this time, I may
cite the following items from letters to our children, written during
the latter half of the year 1877.