had had the fever for fifteen days. During his paroxysms his
cries could be heard throughout the whole neighbourhood. In
their extremity they sent for your father, and gave up the case
to him with permission to remove all spirit-charms during the
treatment. He is now out of danger.” [MRS. MCG.]
“For three weeks I have had a young prince in hospital who had
attempted suicide by cutting his throat. He was a fearful sight.
It did not seem possible that he could survive the night. I
sewed up the wound, however, and now he is well, and apparently
penitent.” [D. MCG.]
“We are well as usual, but engrossed in work. Your father is
pressed beyond measure with the work of two men. On the return
of Dr. Cheek’s boats, we received forty ounces of quinine; but
it is going at a fearful rate. The hospital is full of patients,
and there are at least one hundred more to be prescribed for
daily. If I did not drop everything else and help him, he could
not possibly get through the day’s work.” [MRS. MCG.]
“Soon the quinine was all gone, and our compound was becoming a
veritable lazaretto. Most of the patients were anæmic and
dropsical from long-standing fever. They came, because to remain
at home was to die. Then a new complication arose. Unusual
symptoms began to occur that I could not account for. One
morning at breakfast we were called to see a little girl who had
a hemorrhage. She had no cough and had no consumption. While I
was looking up the symptoms and cause, your mother discovered
that the bleeding was from the gums. That gave us the clue. It
was scurvy. I found that we had at least thirty others whose
gums were similarly diseased. We began at once to give them
lime-juice, and prescribed vegetables, for the lack of which
they were starving. It is the invariable custom of Lāo doctors
in cases of fever to put the patient on a strict diet of boiled
rice and dried fish. On such diet some of our patients had been
living for two or three months. They might as well have been on
an arctic voyage!” [D. MCG.]
“Day before yesterday we tried to have a picnic. A princess had
promised us two elephants, but only one came. Your father took a
horse. The three children and I rode the elephant. Our
destination was the Doi Sutēp temple. About half the way up the
mountain the elephant either concluded that there was no fun in
going up alone, or, more probably, that he had an uncomfortable
load, and refused to go any further. He turned out of the road,
and tried to throw the driver from his neck. The children became
alarmed, and we dismounted as best we could. The children
refused to try riding him again; and since we had come largely
for their pleasure, we had our lunch by a brook, and returned
home on foot.” [MRS. MCG.]
“We had an interesting incident at our December communion. Just
as I had announced the communion hymn, I saw Chao Borirak—the
Nān prince, who had twice accompanied me with his elephant on my
journeys, and for whose sake largely one of my trips to Nān had
been taken—enter the room. As he had been the subject of much
special prayer on our part, I could hardly command my voice
sufficiently to proceed with the hymn. On my return from my
furlough he had written that he would visit me at the first
opportunity. His uncle, the Prince of Nān, had a grandson in
danger of losing his sight from an accident. He had persuaded
the Prince that possibly our medicine might help him. He brought
a few presents from the Prince, and for himself had brought a
gold ring with a native pearl from the Nān river. He is very
anxious that I should move to Nān, but I tell him that he must
wait for you.... With fever and death around us we have been
wonderfully preserved from ‘the pestilence that walketh in
darkness, and the destruction that wasteth at noonday.’ We have
had our anxieties about the children. During the last hot season
we were afraid that little Margaret would melt away, she was so
thin.” [D. MCG.]
But the labours of the year were not in vain. During its progress Nān
Suwan, who afterwards became the founder of the church in Chieng Sên,
and four others who became influential ruling elders, were baptized. And
with these was Pā Kawng, an aged slave of the Prince, who lived to be
one of the Lāo saints.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVIII
WITCHCRAFT
On January 6th, 1878, two native converts were received into the
church—Nān Sī Wichai, the fine scholar who had been Dr. Cheek’s teacher,
and the wife of a leading elder—and with them our own daughter Cornelia.
This was the bright beginning of the year that brought in religious
toleration.
One day in March, as I was sitting in my study, I was surprised to see a
tall man, a stranger, with the bearing of an officer, enter. He pointed
with both fingers to his ears, and asked if the teacher could say
“Ephphatha,” and open the ears of a deaf man as Jesus did. It was a
strange introduction—to be accosted by a Lāo with a quotation from
Scripture in the ancient Aramæan tongue! I judged by his accent that he
was from Lakawn. In answer to my enquiry as to who he was, I learned
that he was a Prayā, the highest rank among Lāo officials; that he had
formerly been first in the Lakawn court, but was not then in office. But
where had he received a Bible, and who had taught him?
I learned that some twenty years before this he had accompanied his
Prince to Bangkok, and there had met Dr. Bradley, from whom he received
a copy of the Old Testament History in Siamese, and the New Testament so
far as it was then published. He had learned Siamese in order to be able
to read and understand the contents of these books. He often wished that
he had lived in the time of Christ. But, having no one to guide him, he
had not learned to draw the lessons that the Bible story was designed to
teach.
He had come to Chiengmai to get the assistance of the princes there in
righting an unjust decision of the Lakawn court against him. He had
heard, too, that there were teachers of a new religion; and he wished to
know whether we taught as did Dr. Bradley and the books received from
him. His position, his manners, his whole history, including his
connection with my father-in-law, attracted me to him with uncommon
force. Our first interview was long and very satisfactory. His questions
were such as he had long wished to put to some one who could explain
them. The truth had been securely lodged in his mind. It was most
interesting to see how a single new thought would illuminate it all.
But what he had sown he was then reaping. While in power he doubtless
had oppressed others. Once he had received “hush money” from murderers
whom he should have prosecuted. If he had not taken it, he said they
would have murdered him, too. His sins weighed upon his conscience. His
most anxious question was whether Jesus could really save _all_ men from
_all_ sins. When asked if Buddha could do so, he said that he never had
seen any such promise in any of the scriptures. He would search again.
He went to an abbot friend from whom he borrowed, as he said, “books by
the armful.” He looked them over with this one question in view: Is
there hope of pardon offered to sinners? He went a second time for more.
At his third coming the abbot, finding out what he was after, refused to
lend to him further. But he confessed that his search was in vain. He
argued with the monks, refuted them; and they cast him off. Upon his
arrival the Chao Uparāt had promised his assistance in the lawsuit.
When, however, he found that the Prayā was becoming a Christian, he
dropped him. But he had found an intercessor greater than any earthly
prince. For Him he was willing to face all opposition and to bear all
reproach.
He was baptized on the 8th of May, just before returning home. The rains
had already set in, and were likely greatly to impede his journey. Yet
he reached Lakawn without encountering a shower. His account of it
afterwards was, that whenever he saw the clouds threatening, he would
wave his hands and pray that they might be dispersed. Lāo Christians
have not become befogged with doubts as to the efficacy of prayer for
temporal blessings. After his return to his home, his family all became
believers, and others also whom he taught. At his invitation I went over
to instruct them and to administer the sacraments. Two years later the
number was sufficient to warrant their organization into a church, of
which the Prayā was made the first elder.
Dr. Cheek’s return at the end of April, 1878, took from my shoulders the
care of the medical work—a very great burden. During his absence I had
put up a hospital building of six rooms. This since then has been moved,
and now forms the nucleus of the Chiengmai Hospital. The doctor soon
found himself overwhelmed with practice. He was a fine surgeon and a
good doctor, and had great influence both with princes and with people.
Moreover, Mrs. Cheek’s inheritance of the language—like my wife’s—was a
great advantage to them both. Only a few days after the doctor’s arrival
we lost our valuable hospital assistant, Lung In. One evening he
complained of some trouble about the heart. He talked a few moments with
his family, then said he felt better and would go to sleep—and in an
instant was gone.
* * * * *
In 1878 Chieng Sên, the old abandoned city which I visited in 1872,
became the theme of anxious consultation on the part of the government.
The Lāo had taken away the inhabitants, but could not take away the
land. It had become a rendezvous for robbers and lawless men from all
quarters. The Western Shans from Burma were settling upon it. Siam
evidently must repopulate the province, or lose it. It was finally
agreed that one thousand descendants of the original captives should be
drafted from Chiengmai, one thousand from Lakawn, and five hundred from
Lampūn, and sent back to reoccupy the province. Chao Noi Inta, the
highest in rank of the available descendants of the original captive
princes, was commissioned as governor. The special interest this exodus
has for our narrative lies in the fact that among these returned
captives was the family of Nān Suwan, one of our best men, and already
an elder of the church. At first Nān Suwan thought of buying himself
off, as many did. But when it was pointed out to him that his going
would be the means of starting a church there, he readily consented to
go.
[Illustration:
INTANON, PRINCE OF CHIENGMAI]
[Illustration:
ELDER NĀN SUWAN]
The governor was a warm friend of mine, and was urgent that we establish
a mission and a church there before Buddhist temples could be built. The
province was virgin soil. A great mortality usually attends the
repeopling of deserted places and the clearing of the land. The governor
was very anxious that we should send a physician. Had we gone then with
five hundred ounces of quinine, we should have had command of the
situation. As it was, Nān Suwan was furnished with some quinine, which
gave him the name of doctor. Broad-minded, hospitable, kindly, and
thoroughly upright, there could have been no better selection. He became
the real father of the Chieng Sên church. His family was a light in the
city. His youngest daughter, Kūi Kêo, one of Mrs. McGilvary’s first
pupils, taught most of the early Christians there to read the Scriptures
in Siamese. The elder himself became a great favourite with the
governor, who used to say that the fact of his being governor, and,
therefore, under authority, alone prevented him from uniting with the
church. Another of the returning captives was Sên Yā Wichai, the first
believer in Chiengmai. He settled on the western border of the Chieng
Sên plain.
* * * * *
The Lāo as a race have been in bondage to the spirits. We have already
had frequent occasion to refer to the slavish fear of them among all
classes, from the highest to the lowest. No event in life, from birth to
the last offices for the dead, could be undertaken without consulting or
appeasing the presiding spirits of the clan, the household, or the
country. Their anger is the fruitful cause of every disease and calamity
that flesh is heir to.
In many ways this would seem a less elevating and ennobling cult than
pure Buddhism. But really it has a much closer affinity with
Christianity than has Buddhism, whether as scientifically held by the
learned, or as embraced by the common people. Buddhism is too atheistic
to bring it into comparison here with Christianity. It lacks the
essential attribute of religion—a sense of dependence on some higher
power. It belongs to a different order of thought. The spirit-cult, on
the other hand, does recognize invisible powers whose goodwill or
illwill brings prosperity or adversity. From this to one Great Spirit,
who is sovereign over all, is but another step on the same line of
ascent. So their spirit-offerings come nearer the idea of propitiation
than do the offerings of Buddhism, which in some quite unaccountable
manner are supposed to bring merit to the offerer.
A belief in witchcraft—that is, in the temporary or permanent residence
of some evil spirit in men—has been confined to no one age or race. Its
predominance among the northern Tai tribes is very remarkable in view of
its inconsistency with Buddhism, which has long been the religion of the
race. In the contest for supremacy, the spirit-cult, while it has not
superseded Buddhism, has secured the stronger hold on the people. They
worship Buddha and make offerings in his temples; but they fear and
dread the power of the spirits to inflict present evil. It is safer to
neglect Buddha than these. And the power of a malicious spirit is most
dreaded when it has taken up its abode in a human habitation.
From the time of our first arrival in Chiengmai we were continually
amazed to find what multitudes of people had been driven from their
homes for supposed witchcraft. All the northern provinces and towns, as
has already been mentioned, were largely peopled by that unfortunate
class. Accusation of witchcraft had become one of the most dreaded means
of oppression and persecution. It was a favourite way of getting rid of
an envied rival or of a disagreeable neighbour. No family and no rank
were safe from such attack. Princes, even, had fallen under its ban.
When once the suspicion of witchcraft was well started, the individual
or the family was doomed. Our sympathies had often been aroused in
behalf of these unfortunates; but no favourable opportunity had occurred
for interference in any other way than by our teaching.
Finally, in August, 1878, the opportunity came. I had a request from a
prince of some wealth and standing, that I would take under our
protection Pā Sêng Bun and her family, accused of witchcraft. The woman
was first the under-wife of the Prince’s deceased father, who was a man
of note in his day. She had two fine boys by a subsequent husband, and a
niece nearly grown. This second husband was a widower, whose former wife
was suspected of dealing in the occult art; and the theory was that the
evil spirit came into her family through these sons. In that season of
heavy rains and flooded streams, the whole family was to be driven
off—some of them surely to die on the way. The patron said that he was
helpless; that no one in the land, unless it were ourselves, could
shield them from that fate. I told him that we were perfectly willing to
risk the anger of the spirits, only we did not wish unnecessarily to
offend the prejudices of the people. He was willing to assume all
_legal_ responsibility; for the rest, we might fight it out with the
spirits as we pleased. After notifying the Siamese Commissioner of the
situation, we brought the family to our place.
That very day their house was burned down; and not a tree or bush was
left standing on the premises to furnish shelter to the spirits. But
that did not stop the clamour. There was then in their village a great
epidemic of fever. By common consent it was agreed that this had been
caused by the evil spirit resident in the lads. With boyish curiosity
they had twice or thrice gone back to visit the site of their old home,
and, strange to say, after each visit a new case of sickness had
occurred, which was, of course, attributed to their presence. It was
vain to point out the utter ridiculousness of the idea, or to show that
no sickness had occurred on our place since their arrival. That was
easily explained. The spirit was afraid of our God, and did not dare to
enter the premises. It took refuge in a large tree outside till the boys
came out again, when it entered its former habitation and went with
them.
Finally the patron prince sent word that we must give that family up. He
could endure the odium no longer. When I refused, he threatened to take
the matter into court. To this I replied that I was perfectly willing
that the case be tried; but it should not be tried before a Lāo court,
but before the Commissioner. If they could convince him that the
sickness in the village was caused by a malicious spirit resident in
that family, they should be sent off immediately. But, I added, it would
be fair to make one condition. If the accusers failed, _they_ should be
driven off. This—as I knew it would do—put an end to the whole affair.
We heard no more of it. It was a great victory in the demon controversy;
and, later, as we shall see, it proved a boon to scores of helpless
victims. Before the arrival of the Commissioner such an outcome would
have been impossible. No Lāo court would have refused to expel persons
so accused. The family of Pā Sêng Bun proved to be a treasure, becoming
one of the most influential and valuable in the Chiengmai church.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XIX
THE EDICT OF RELIGIOUS TOLERATION
Our narrative has now brought us to a point where an apparently trivial
circumstance became the occasion of an event not only of utmost
importance to us and to our work, but of far-reaching consequences to
the country at large. Sometime near the middle of this year, 1878, the
eldest daughter of Nān Inta was to be married to a Christian young man
studying for the ministry. Both parties at that time were virtually
members of our family. The expected bride was a pupil of Mrs.
McGilvary’s, and the groom was a private pupil of mine. The immediate
family connections on both sides were Christians. Inasmuch as this was
the first Christian marriage in the church, we had prepared to celebrate
it with a little wedding feast. Besides the Christians, a few princes
and a few special friends were invited, all anxious to see a Christian
marriage ceremony. Among the invited guests was Chao Tēpawong, Nān
Inta’s liege-lord, and brother of the Uparāt.
We learned that the family patriarch—known to be a violent opposer of
Christianity—had threatened to prevent the marriage, unless we first
paid to him, as tribal head of the family, the spirit-fee originally
designed to furnish a feast for the spirits. It was a small sum—among
common people not more than six rupees. That payment would legalize
marriage without any further ceremony. In fact, the payment may be
regarded as a distinctively religious act, since it recognizes the
spirits as the guardians and protectors of the family. When one becomes
a Christian, that allegiance is cast off. By an unwritten law or custom
of the country, that fee belonged to the patriarch, and he decided to
exact it or make trouble. I had explained the marriage ceremony to the
princes and to the Commissioner. I knew that the latter recognized the
justice of our position, and I assumed that the government would support
us if the patriarch caused any trouble.
Sure enough, early in the morning the patriarch’s loud voice was heard
in our yard threatening dire punishment to the family if his demand were
not granted. The bride’s father became alarmed, and thought we must have
some official backing, or he would surely get into trouble. The guests
had arrived, and every one was on the _qui vive_ to see which side was
to win in the contest. I went to the liege-lord of the family for his
sanction; but he said it was too big a question for him to pass upon. I
must go to a higher authority. It had evidently become a question that
could not be settled that morning. Old Adam would have said, “Marry them
and trust to the justice of your cause. Let the old patriarch whistle!”
But we teach our Christians to be obedient to the law, and we wished to
avoid unnecessary trouble. So there was nothing to do but to swallow our
mortification, apologize to our guests, invite them to partake of the
feast, and seek legal sanction afterwards.
After dinner that same day Dr. Cheek and I called upon the Commissioner.
We had failed, and were come to him for advice. His sympathies were
easily enlisted, but he had no authority to interfere in local or tribal
matters. He advised us to go to the Prince. We did so, meeting him and
the Princess alone. Their position was like that of the Commissioner.
They, too, sympathized with the young couple and with us. But it raised
a new question for them, and they feared to give offence. The Princess
said they had been criticised by our enemies for standing by us; but if
the Chao Uparāt would give his sanction, no one else, they thought,
would dare oppose. So we went next to the Uparāt; but there we ran
against a stone wall. He inwardly laughed at our predicament. He had us
just where he wanted us to be. If our young people could not marry, our
work would be virtually stopped. He said that no one but the King of
Siam had authority to interfere in such a question.
We returned home signally defeated. Next day I went alone to the Chao
Uparāt, and argued the justice of our case. The parties had renounced
their allegiance to the spirits. It was clearly unreasonable to require
what we could not conscientiously submit to. I even begged him to come
to our aid, since both the Commissioner and the Prince had said that
they were sure that no one else would oppose his decision. If we were
compelled, we must appeal to His Majesty the King of Siam, though we
should be very reluctant to do so. Since marriage is a civil as well as
a religious rite, I was sure His Majesty would admit the justice of our
appeal. Either thinking that we would not make the appeal, or that the
appeal would be in vain, he at last refused to discuss the question
further. Little did he know, nor did we then, that he was doing the best
possible thing for us.
I returned then to the Commissioner to report. The conflict which, as we
have seen, was probably inevitable between the royal authority
represented by the Commissioner on the one hand, and the local rulers on
the other, was becoming inevitable sooner than was anticipated. The
Commissioner just then was himself having great trouble with officials
who were restive under his authority. The Lakawn Princes had a
difficulty among themselves, and had come to the Commissioner to have
the case adjudicated. His decision had been unfavourable to one of the
higher officials—probably the chief himself. Whoever it was, he had
committed the unpardonable offence of departing to Lakawn without taking
leave of the Commissioner, presumably intending to appeal to Bangkok. So
that morning I found His Excellency indignant at the insult offered to
him, and, through him, to his sovereign. The royal authority which he
represented was challenged. Moreover, some of the acts of the Chao
Uparāt had offended him. His impressions were confirmed and strengthened
by the recital of our grievances. He advised me to write these all out
in full, giving specifications that could be substantiated—and such were
rapidly multiplying. For, provoked at Nān Inta and his family, and
emboldened with his own success in stopping the wedding, the Chao Uparāt
had summoned Nān Inta and had set him to watching his summer-house on
the river—the work of a menial, such as Nān Inta had never yet been
reduced to doing.
At last the moment had come when an appeal for religious toleration
might be made with fair prospect of success. As the only way of avoiding
continual interference in the future, the Commissioner himself advised
that the appeal be made for religious toleration in general, rather than
for freedom of Christian marriage, which was only a single item. The
Commissioner was busily engaged in writing out a report of his own
grievances, to be sent to the King. He said that he would mention our
case also in his report, and offered to forward my letter with his
despatches.