Chapter XXXV: Conclusion 413 (3)

I presume that most Christian people in America have a very crude idea of the method of preaching the Gospel often, or, perhaps, generally, used by missionaries, particularly in new fields. If they think that the bell is rung, that the people assemble in orderly fashion, and take their seats, that a hymn is sung, prayer offered, the Scripture read, a sermon delivered, and the congregation dismissed with the doxology and benediction,—they are very much mistaken. All that comes in time. We have lived to see it come in this land—thanks to God’s blessing upon work much more desultory than that. Long after the time we are now speaking of, one could talk of religion to the people by the hour, or even by the day; one might sing hymns, might solemnly utter prayer, in response to inquiry as to how we worshipped—and they would listen respectfully and with interest. But if public worship had been announced, and these same people had been invited to remain, every soul would have fled away for fear of being caught in some trap and made Christians without their consent, or for fear of being made to suffer the consequences of being reputed Christians before they were ready to take that step. Forty years later than the time we are now speaking of, I have seen people who were standing about the church door and looking in, driven quite away by the mere invitation to come in and be seated.

In one sense our work during the first year was very desultory. I had always to shape my instruction to the individuals before me. It would often be in answer to questions as to where was our country; in what direction; how one would travel to get there; could one go there on foot; and so on. Or the question might be as to the manners and customs of our nation; or it might be directly on religion itself. But as all roads lead to Rome, so all subjects may be turned to Christ, His cross, and His salvation.

Of the friends found in those early days I must mention two. One was Princess Būa Kam, the mother of the late and last Lāo Prince, Chao Intanon. At our first acquaintance, she formed for us a warm friendship that lasted till her death. Nor could I ever discover any other ground for her friendship than the fact that we were religious teachers. She was herself a devout Buddhist, and continued to the last her offerings in the monasteries. I believe that the Gospel plan of salvation struck a chord in her heart which her own religion never did. From Buddha she got no assurance of pardon. The assurance that pardon is possible in itself seemed to give her hope, though by what process a logical mind could hardly see, so long as she held on to a system which, as she confessed, did not and could not give pardon. She was always pleased to hear the story of the incarnation, the birth, life, and miracles of Christ. She was deeply touched by the recital of His sufferings, persecutions, and death. Illustrations of the substitutionary efficacy of His sufferings she readily understood. She acknowledged her god to be a man who, by the well-nigh endless road to nirvāna, had ceased to suffer by ceasing to exist. The only claim he had to warrant his pointing out the way to others was the fact that he had passed over it himself. There was one ground, however, on which she felt that she might claim the comfort both of the doctrines which she still held and of ours, too. A favourite theory of hers—and of many others—was that, after all, we worship the same God under different names. She called hers Buddha, and we call ours Jehovah-Jesus.

She had by nature a woman’s tender heart. Benevolence had doubtless been developed in her by her religion, till it had become a second nature. The gifts she loved to make were also a means of laying up a store of merit for the future. She was most liberal in sending us tokens of remembrance. These were not of much value. A quart of white rice, a few oranges, cucumbers, or cocoanuts on a silver tray, were so customary a sight that, if ever any length of time elapsed without them, we wondered if the Princess were ill. And, on the other hand, if for any cause my calls were far apart, she would be sure to send to enquire if I were ill. The “cup of cold water” which she thus so often pressed to our lips, I am sure, was given for the Master’s sake.

Another remarkable friendship formed during that first year was that of a Buddhist monk, abbot of the Ūmōng monastery. As in the other case, there was no favour to ask, no axe to grind. He never made a request for anything, unless it were for a book. But the little novice who attended him almost always brought a cocoanut or some other small present for us. Very early in our acquaintance he came to see that the universe could not be self-existent, as Buddhism teaches. On his deeply religious nature the sense of sin weighed heavily. He was well versed in the Buddhist scriptures, and knew that there was no place for pardon in all that system. He understood the plan of salvation offered to men through the infinite merit of Jesus Christ. At times he would argue that it was impossible. But the thought that, after all, it might be possible, afforded him a gleam of hope that he saw nowhere else; and he was not willing to renounce it altogether.

TEMPLE OF THE OLD TĀI STYLE OF ARCHITECTURE, CHIENGMAI]

During the dark months that followed the martyrdom of our native Christians, when many who were true friends deemed it unwise to let their sympathy be known, the good abbot visited us regularly, as, indeed, he continued to do as long as he lived. At times I had strong hopes that he would leave the priesthood. But he never could quite see his way to do that, though he maintained that he never ceased to worship Jesus. The only likeness, alas! that I have of his dear old face is a photograph taken after death, as his body lay ready for cremation. Unto whom, if not unto such true friends of His as these, was it said, “I was a hungered, and ye gave Me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave Me drink; I was in prison, and ye visited Me.—Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me”?

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VII

PIONEER WORK

The military expedition in which the Prince was engaged detained him in the field until some time in May. It was one of many unsuccessful attempts to capture a notorious Ngīo chieftain who, turning outlaw and robber, had gathered about him a band of desperadoes, with whom he sallied forth from his mountain fastness, raiding innocent villages and carrying off the plunder to his stronghold, before any force could be gathered to withstand or to pursue him. In this way he kept the whole country in constant alarm during the earlier years of our stay in Chiengmai. What made matters worse was the fact—as the Lāo firmly believed—that he had a charmed life, that he could render himself invisible, and that no weapon could penetrate his flesh. Had not the stockade within which he had taken shelter been completely surrounded one night by a cordon of armed men, and at dawn, when he was to have been captured, he was nowhere to be found? Such was the man of whom we shall hear more further on.

At the Lāo New Year it is customary for all persons of princely rank, all officers and people of influence, to present their compliments to the Prince in person, and to take part in the ceremony of “Dam Hūa,” by way of wishing him a Happy New Year. Because of the Prince’s absence in the field, this ceremony could not be observed at the regular time; but it was none the less brilliantly carried out a few days after his return. The name, Dam Hūa, means “bathing the head” or “head-bath,” and it is really a ceremonial bathing or baptism of the Prince’s head with water poured upon it, first by princes and officials in the order of their rank, and so on down to his humblest subjects.

The first and more exclusive part of the ceremony took place in the palace, where I also was privileged to offer my New Year’s greetings with the rest. The great reception hall was crowded with the Prince’s family and with officials of all degrees. The air was heavy with the fragrance of flowers which loaded every table and stand. All were in readiness with their silver vessels filled with water, awaiting His Highness’ appearance. At length an officer with a long silver-handled spear announced his coming. The whole company received him with lowest prostration after the old-time fashion. Seeing me standing, he sent for a chair, saying that the ceremony was long, and I would be tired. The Court Orator, or Scribe, then read a long address of welcome to the Prince on his return from his brilliant expedition, with high-sounding compliments on its success. Then there was a long invocation of all the powers above or beneath, real or imaginary, not to molest, but instead to protect, guide, and bless His Highness’ person, kingdom, and people, with corresponding curses invoked on all his enemies and theirs. Then came the ceremonial bath, administered first by his own family, his relatives, and high officials—he standing while vase after vase of water was poured on his head, drenching him completely and flooding all the floor. It is a ceremony not at all unpleasant in a hot climate, however unendurable it might be in colder regions.

This was the beginning. According to immemorial custom, a booth was prepared on a sand-bar in the river. To this, after the ceremony in the palace, the Prince went in full state, riding on an elephant richly caparisoned with trappings of solid gold, to receive a like bath at the hands of his loyal subjects—beginning, as before, with some high nobles, and then passing on to the common people, who might all take part in this closing scene of the strange ceremony.

I was not in the concourse at the river, but watched the procession from our sālā, the Prince having said to me that he would call on his return. This he did, making us a nice little visit, taking a cup of tea, and listening to the playing of some selections on the organ. He asked if I had selected a place for a permanent station, and suggested one or two himself. But I was in no hurry, preferring to wait for the judgment of Mr. Wilson on his arrival. Meanwhile I was assured that I might remain in the sālā, and might put up a temporary house to receive the new family. When I requested his consent to the employment of a teacher, he asked whom I thought of employing. I mentioned the name of one, and he said, “He is not good. I will send you a better one,”—and he sent me his own teacher.

It was a very auspicious beginning. I knew that neither the Siamese nor the Lāo trusted the Prince very thoroughly; yet every time that I saw him it seemed to me that I might trust him. At any rate, I did not then look forward to the scenes that we were to pass through before three years were gone.

After the first curiosity wore off, many of those who came to our sālā were patients seeking medical treatment. The title “Maw” (doctor) followed me from Bangkok, where all missionaries, I believe, are still so called. This name itself often excited hopes which, of course, were doomed to disappointment. To the ignorant all diseases seem equally curable, if only there be the requisite skill or power. How often during those first five years I regretted that I was not a trained physician and surgeon! My only consolation was that it was not my fault. When my thoughts were first turned towards missions, I consulted the officers of our Board on the wisdom of taking at least a partial course in preparation for my work. But medical missions had not then assumed the importance they since have won. In fact, just then they were at a discount. The Board naturally thought that medical study would be, for me at least, a waste of time, and argued besides that in most mission fields there were English physicians. But it so happened that eleven years of my missionary life have been spent in stations from one hundred to five hundred miles distant from a physician. So, if any physician who reads this narrative is inclined to criticise me as a quack, I beg such to remember that I was driven to it—I had to do whatever I could in the case of illness in my own family; and for pity I could not turn away those who often had nothing but superstitious charms to rely on. It was a comfort, moreover, to know that in spite of inevitable disappointments, our practice of medicine made friends, and possibly enabled us to maintain the field, at a time when simply as Christian teachers we could not have done so. Even Prince Kāwilōrot himself conceded so much when, after forbidding us to remain as missionaries, he said we might, if we wished, remain to treat the sick.

In such a malarial country, there is no estimating the boon conferred by the introduction of quinine alone. Malarial fevers often ran on season after season, creating an anæmic condition such that the least exertion would bring on the fever and chills again. The astonishment of the people, therefore, is not surprising when two or three small powders of the “white medicine,” as they called it, taken with much misgiving, would cut short the fever, while their own medicines, taken by the potful for many months, had failed. The few bottles of quinine which it had been thought sufficient to bring with me, were soon exhausted. The next order was for forty four-ounce bottles; and not till our physicians at length began to order by the thousand ounces could a regular supply be kept on hand. I have often been in villages where every child, and nearly every person, young or old, had chills and fever, till the spleen was enlarged, and the whole condition such that restoration was possible only after months of treatment.

There was another malady very common then—the goitre—which had never been cured by any remedy known to the Lāo doctors. I soon learned, however, that an ointment of potassium iodide was almost a specific in the earlier stages of the disease. That soon gave my medicine and my treatment a reputation that no regular physician could have sustained; for the people were sure that one who could cure the goitre must be able to cure any disease. If I protested that I was not a doctor, it seemed a triumphant answer to say, “Why, you cured such a one of the goitre.” Often when I declined to undertake the treatment of some disease above my skill, the patient would go away saying, “I believe you could, if you would.”

One other part of my medical work I must mention here, since reference will be made to it later. The ravages of smallpox had been fearful, amounting at times to the destruction of a whole generation of children. The year before our arrival had witnessed such a scourge. Hardly a household escaped, and many had no children left. I was specially interested to prevent or to check these destructive epidemics, because the Prince had seen the efficacy of vaccination as practised by Dr. Bradley in Bangkok, and because I felt sure that what he had seen had influenced him to give his consent to our coming. One of the surest ways then known of sending the virus a long distance was in the form of the dry scab from a vaccine pustule. When once the virus had “taken,” vaccination went on from arm to arm. Dr. Bradley sent me the first vaccine scab. It reached me during the first season; and vaccination from it ran a notable course.

The Karens and other hill-tribes are so fearful of smallpox that when it comes near their villages, they all flee to the mountains. Smallpox had broken out in a Lāo village near a Karen settlement. The settlement was at once deserted. Meanwhile the news of the efficacy of vaccination had reached the Lāo village, and they sent a messenger with an elephant to beg me to come and vaccinate the entire community. Two young monks came also from an adjoining village, where the disease was already raging. These two I vaccinated at once, and sent home, arranging to follow them later when their pustules should be ripe. From them I vaccinated about twenty of the villagers. During the following week the Karens all returned, and in one day I vaccinated one hundred and sixty-three persons. It was a strange sight to see four generations all vaccinated at one time—great-grandfathers holding out their withered arms along with babes a month old.

Success such as this was naturally very flattering to one’s pride; and “pride goeth before a fall.” I had kept the Prince informed of the success of my attempt, and naturally was anxious to introduce vaccination into the palace. The patronage of the palace would ensure its introduction into the whole kingdom. Having a fine vaccine pustule on the arm of a healthy white infant boy, I took him to the palace to show the case to the Prince’s daughter, and to her husband, who was the heir-apparent. They had a little son of about the same age. The parents were pleased, and sent me with the child to the Prince. As soon as he saw the pustule, he pronounced it genuine, and was delighted. His younger daughter had lost a child in the epidemic of the year before, and the family was naturally very anxious on the subject. He sent me immediately to vaccinate his little grandson.

I returned to the palace of the son-in-law, and very carefully vaccinated the young prince on whom so many hopes were centred. I watched the case daily, and my best hopes seemed realized. The pustules developed finely. All the characteristic symptoms appeared and disappeared at the proper times. But when the scab was about to fall off, the little prince was taken with diarrhœa. I felt sure that a little paregoric or some other simple remedy would speedily set the child right, and I offered to treat the case. But half a dozen doctors—most of them “spirit-doctors”—were already in attendance. The poor child, I verily believe, was dosed to death. So evident was it that the unfortunate outcome could not have been the result of vaccination, that both the parents again and again assured me that they entertained no such thought. But all diseases—as was then universally believed among the Lāo—are the result of incurring the displeasure of the “spirits” of the family or of the clan. The “spirits” might have taken umbrage at the invasion of their prerogative by vaccination.

No doubt some such thought was whispered to the Prince, and it is not unnatural that he should at least have half believed it. In his grief at the loss of his grandson, it is easy to see how that thought may have fanned his jealousy at the growing influence of the missionaries.

No year ever passed more rapidly or more pleasantly than that first year of the mission. We were too busy to be either lonesome or homesick, although, to complete our isolation, we had no mails of any sort for many months. Our two children, the one of three and the other of six years, were a great comfort to us. When we left Bangkok it was understood that a Mr. C. of the Borneo Company was to follow us in a month on business of their teak trade. He had promised to bring up our mail. So we felt sure of getting our first letters in good time. Since he would travel much faster than we, it was not impossible that he might overtake us on the way. But April, May, and June passed, and still no word of Mr. C. or of the mails he was bringing. In July we received a note from him, with a few fragments of our long looked-for mail. He had been attacked by robbers below Rahêng, himself had received a serious wound, and his boat had been looted of every portable object, including our mail-bag. Fortunately the robbers, finding nothing of value to them in the mail, had dropped as they fled some mutilated letters and papers, which the officers in pursuit picked up, and which Mr. C. forwarded to us. Otherwise we should have had nothing. We could at least be devoutly thankful that we had traversed the same river in safety.

It was long before we were sure that Mr. Wilson and his family were coming at all that year. It was at least possible that any one of a thousand causes might delay them, or even prevent their coming altogether. Their arrival on February 15th, 1868, was, of course, a great event.

Not long after this we were eagerly awaiting a promised visit from our old associate and friend, Dr. S. R. House. Both Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. McGilvary were expecting shortly to be confined, and the good doctor was making the tedious journey that he might be on hand to help them with his professional skill in the hour of their need. Our dismay can be imagined, when, one day, there appeared, not the doctor, but his native assistant, with a few pencilled lines from the doctor, telling us that he was lying in the forest some four or five days distant, dangerously, if not fatally, gored by an elephant. We were not to come to him, but were to stand by and attend to the needs of our families. He begged us to pray for him, and to send him some comforts and medicines.

The accident happened on this wise: The doctor had been walking awhile for exercise behind his riding elephant, and then attempted to pass up beside the creature to the front. The elephant, startled at his unexpected appearance, struck him to the ground with a blow of his trunk, gored him savagely in the abdomen, and was about to trample him under foot, when the driver, not a moment too soon, got the creature again under control. With rare nerve the doctor cleansed the frightful wound, and sewed it up by the help of its reflection in a mirror, as he lay on his back on the ground. He despatched the messenger to us; gave careful instructions to his attendants as to what they should do for him when the inevitable fever and delirium should come on; and resigned himself calmly to await whatever the outcome might be.

The situation was, indeed, desperate. We could not possibly hope to reach him before the question of life or death for him would be settled; nor could he be brought to us. The best we could do was to get an order from the Prince for a boat, boatmen, and carriers, and despatch these down the river, committing with earnest prayer the poor sufferer to the all-loving Father’s care. The doctor was carried on a bamboo litter through the jungle to the Mê Ping River, and in due time reached Chiengmai convalescent, to find that the two expected young missionaries had arrived in safety before him. After a month’s rest he was able to return to Bangkok; but not until he had assisted us in organizing the First Presbyterian Church of Chiengmai.

In the _Presbyterian Record_ for November, 1868, will be found an interesting report from the doctor’s pen. Naturally he was struck with the predominance of demon-worship over Buddhism among the Lāo. We quote the following:

“Not only offerings, but actually prayers are made to demons. I
shall never forget the first prayer of the kind I ever heard....
We had just entered a dark defile in the mountains, beyond Mûang
Tôn, and had come to a rude, imageless shrine erected to the
guardian demon of the pass. The owner of my riding-elephant was
seated on the neck of the big beast before me. Putting the palms
of his hands together and raising them in the attitude of
worship, he prayed: ‘Let no evil happen to us. We are six men
and three elephants. Let us not be injured. Let nothing come to
frighten us,’ and so on. On my way down the river, at the rapids
and gloomy passes in the mountains the boatmen would land,
tapers would be lighted, and libations would be poured, and
offerings of flowers, food, and betel would be made to the
powers of darkness.”

The doctor speaks also of “the favour with which the
missionaries were received, the confidence they had won from all
classes, the influence of their medicines, and the grand field
open for a physician.” He frankly says, “I must confess that
though at one time I did have some misgivings whether, all
things considered, the movement was not a little premature, I
now, being better able to judge, greatly honour the Christian
courage and enterprise which undertook the work; or rather bless
God who inspired Mr. McGilvary’s heart, and made his old
Princeton friend, Mr. Wilson, consent to join him in thus
striking out boldly into an untried field. It will prove, I
trust, a field ready to the harvest.”

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VIII

FIRST-FRUITS

During the first three months after Mr. Wilson’s arrival we were so occupied with mission work and with family cares that we had not made choice of the lot which the Prince had promised to give us. On the very day that Dr. House left us, however, the Prince came in person, selected, and made over to us our present beautiful mission compound on the east bank of the Mê Ping. He would not allow us to offer any compensation; but, learning afterwards that the native owners had received no remuneration, we secretly paid them. Mr. Wilson began at once to erect temporary bamboo buildings, and soon moved to the new compound. Since it was difficult for me to spare time for further work of building for myself, and since the old location was an ideal one for meeting the people, I moved with my family from the sālā into the bamboo house the Wilsons had occupied, and we made it our home for the next two years.

Mr. Wilson was greatly interrupted in his work by sickness in his family. Little Frank had fallen ill on the journey from Bangkok, and continued to suffer during all these months. His death on November 17th, 1868, was a heavy stroke to us all. In vain we combined our slight medical skill, and searched our books of domestic medicine for his relief. It was pitiful enough to see the natives die, with the sad feeling in our hearts that a physician might have saved their lives. But the death of one of our own number, so soon after the trying experiences early in the year, emphasized, as nothing else could have done, our appeals for a physician. Yet it was not until 1872 that we welcomed the first physician appointed to our mission.

During this time raids were continually being made into the Lāo country by the renegade Ngīo chieftain already spoken of. Five hundred men from Prê, and one thousand from Lakawn were drafted for the defence of the city, and were stationed near our compound. Thus hundreds of soldiers and workmen furnished us an ever-changing audience. All we had to do, day or night, was to touch the organ, and people would crowd in to hear. The dry season of 1868-69 was, therefore, an exceptionally good one for our work. We had constant visitors from other provinces, who would converse with us by the hour, and, on returning to their homes, would carry the news of our presence and of our work.

In the fall of 1868 occurred two events which, widely different as they might seem to be, were in reality closely connected, and of much importance in their bearing on the mission. One was a total eclipse of the sun on August 17th, and the other was the conversion of Nān Inta, our first baptized convert. I well remember his tall figure and thoughtful face when he first appeared at our sālā, shortly after our arrival in Chiengmai. He had a cough, and had come for medicine. He had heard, too, that we taught a new religion, and wished to enquire about that. Some soothing expectorant sufficiently relieved his cough to encourage him to make another call. On each visit religion was the all-absorbing topic. He had studied Buddhism, and he diligently practised its precepts. As an abbot he had led others to make offerings for the monastery worship, and he had two sons of his own in the monastic order. But Buddhism had never satisfied his deep spiritual nature. What of the thousands of failures and transgressions from the results of which there was no escape? The doctrine of a free and full pardon through the merits of another, was both new and attractive to him, but it controverted the fundamental principle of his religion.

We had some arguments, also, on the science of geography, on the shape of the earth, on the nature of eclipses, and the like. What he heard was as foreign to all his preconceived ideas as was the doctrine of salvation from sin by the death of Christ. Just before the great eclipse was to occur I told him of it, naming the day and the hour when it was to occur. I pointed out that the eclipse could not be caused by a monster which attacked the sun, as he had been taught. If that were the cause, no one could foretell the day when the monster would be moved to make the attack. He at once caught that idea. If the eclipse came off as I said, he would have to admit that his teaching was wrong on a point perfectly capable of being tested by the senses. There would then be a strong presumption that we were right in religion as well as in eclipses. He waited with intense interest for the day to come. The sky was clear, and everything was favourable. He watched, with a smoked glass that we had furnished, the reflection of the sun in a bucket of water. He followed the coming of the eclipse, its progress, and its passing off, as anxiously as the wise men of old followed the star of Bethlehem—and, like them, he, too, was led to the Saviour.

Early the next morning he came in to see me. His first words were, “Mên tê” (It’s really true). “The teacher’s books teach truth. Ours are wrong.” This confident assurance had evidently been reached after a sleepless night. A complete revolution had taken place in his mind; but it was one that cost him a severe struggle. His only hope had rested on the teachings of Buddha, and it was no light thing to see the foundation of his hope undermined. The eclipse had started an ever-widening rift. He began, as never before, to examine the credentials of Christianity. He soon learned to read Siamese in order to gain access to our Scriptures. We read the Gospel of John together. He studied the Shorter Catechism. He had a logical mind, and it was never idle. Whenever we met, if only for a few moments, he always had some question to ask me, or some new doubt to solve. When tempted to doubt, he fell back on the eclipse, saying, “I know my books were wrong there. If the Gospel system seems too good to be true in that it offers to pardon and cleanse and adopt guilty sinners, and give them a title to a heavenly inheritance, it is simply because it is divine, and not human.” While the truth dawned gradually on his mind, the full vision seemed to be sudden. His own account was that afterwards, when walking in the fields and pondering the subject, it all became very plain to him. His doubts all vanished. Henceforth for him to live was Christ; and he counted all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Him.

The conversion of Nān Inta was an epoch in the history of the mission. The ordinary concourse of visitors might be for medicine, or it might be from mere curiosity. But when one of the most zealous Buddhists, well known by members of the royal family, openly embraced Christianity, the matter began to assume a different aspect. What was more remarkable still was that he urged his two sons to abandon the monastic order. The Prince’s younger daughter, herself a strong Buddhist, told me that this was to her convincing evidence of his sincerity. Whether Christianity were true or false, he certainly believed it true. It was the height of ambition for every Lāo father to have a son in the order. If he had none of his own, he often would adopt one and make him a monk. But here was one of the most devout of them urging his own sons to come out and be Christians! We regarded it as a favourable circumstance that the patron and protector of this our first convert was high in princely rank. Nān Inta’s defection from Buddhism produced a profound impression among all classes. Emboldened by his example, secret believers became more open. Not the number alone, but the character of the enquirers attracted attention.

The second convert was Noi Sunya, a native doctor from a village eight miles to the east. He has the enviable distinction of never having postponed the Gospel offer. He was the chief herdsman in charge of the Prince’s cattle. Coming to the city on an errand, he called at our sālā to see what was the attraction there. As in the case of so many others, it was the good news of pardon for a sinsick soul that arrested his attention. On his return in the afternoon he called again to make fuller enquiry concerning “the old, old story of Jesus and His love.” He promised to return on Sunday. Promises of that sort so often fail, that we were surprised and delighted to see him early on Sunday morning. We had an earnest talk together before the time came for public worship. He remained through the afternoon, and spent the night with us. In answer to a final exhortation before he left us in the morning, he said, “You need not fear my going back. I feel sure I am right.” He was willing to sell all—even life itself, as it proved—for the pearl of great price. He went home, called his family together, and began family worship that very night. Only four brief months after this his labours were ended by the executioner’s stroke, and he wore the martyr’s crown.

The third, Sên Yā Wichai, has already been mentioned as receiving his first instruction in Christianity from the “mother-teacher,” as Mrs. McGilvary was called, during the very first month of the mission. He then received the great truth of the existence of God and of man’s accountability to Him. He was an officer living six days’ journey to the north, and was under the jurisdiction of the Prince of Lampūn. On his visit a year later, he received further instruction, was baptized, and returned to tell his neighbours what he had found. They only laughed at him for his oddity in refusing to join in the Buddhist worship, and in offerings to the spirits.

The fourth was Nān Chai, a neighbour and friend of Noi Sunya, and destined to suffer martyrdom along with him. He, too, was an ex-abbot, and, therefore, exempt from government work. He was a good scholar, and was employed by Mr. Wilson as a teacher. When he became a Christian, he was strongly tempted to hold on still to his position in the monastery, explaining that he would not himself engage in the worship, but would only sweep the buildings and keep the grounds in order for others. But when his duty was pointed out to him, he readily gave up his position, and was enrolled for regular government service. Here were four noble and notable men at once deserting the Buddhist faith! No wonder it became an anxious question whereunto this was to grow.

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IX

MARTYRDOM

In the course of these events our second year of work in Chiengmai had come to its end. We were now beyond the middle of the year 1869. As some indefinable sense of oppression in the air gives warning of the approaching storm, so there were ominous hints, and even some dark forebodings. Our Christian people—who understood far better than we did both the character of their rulers and the significance of furtive looks and innuendoes—were anxious. But they stood firm, and their faith strengthened ours.

In the light of subsequent events we now know that the most dangerous element in the gathering storm was the angry surprise of the Prince himself at the discovery that the old order seemed actually passing away under his very eyes; that his will was no longer supreme in men’s minds, nor always consulted in their actions—this and the deep treachery and ruthless cruelty of his nature which it brought into play. But there were other sinister influences at work also, and among them we must not overlook that of a certain Portuguese adventurer, Fonseca by name. He was a thoroughly unprincipled man, who, having played his game in Bangkok and lost, had worked himself into the favour of the Prince during his recent visit to the capital, and had accompanied him on his return to Chiengmai. The Prince was persuaded that this man could be of great service to him in the two matters which were then causing him most disquietude; namely, the defence of certain lawsuits involving large sums of money, brought against him in the British Consular Court by Burmese timber merchants; and the getting rid of the missionaries. These last were more in Fonseca’s way than they were in the Prince’s. He could accomplish his ends more readily if they were not there.

The most plausible excuse that could be offered for desiring to be rid of the missionaries was the failure of the rice crop that year. In the early part of the season there was no rain at all. When at last the fields had been planted, one of the worst floods ever known in that region destroyed all the lowland rice. Then, finally, the rains ceased prematurely, and the upland crop was cut off by drought. The presence of the missionaries in the country had offended the spirits, and they had withheld the rain. Such was the pretext urged in a petition sent to Bangkok to have the missionaries removed. The specific address of the petition to the Minister for Foreign Affairs and the United States Consul leads one to suspect that the matter was directed by some one who understood the order of official business much better than did the Lāo Prince.

The Minister forwarded the document to Mr. McDonald, the acting Vice-Consul at the time. Mr. McDonald replied to the Minister that there must be some mistake about it. It appeared that the scarcity of rice complained of had begun the year before the arrival of the missionaries; it was not confined to Chiengmai, but extended over all the northern provinces. He added roguishly, however, that he would strictly enjoin the American missionaries to be very careful in future not to cause any famine. Of all this secret plotting we were entirely ignorant at the time, and learned of it only long afterwards. While these plots were developing, I was frequently visiting the Prince, and all our relations with him were apparently satisfactory. But we knew that he was under the influence of a wily and unprincipled adversary.

The other matter in which Fonseca was supposed to be able to help his patron out of difficulties even more pressing, was the Burmese lawsuits pending before the British Consul. But the British government was the last party to permit officious meddling with its public business from such a quarter. It is presumed that there was evidence of his interference with official correspondence. This much is certain—a peremptory demand was made on the Siamese government for his recall. The official order sent up was too emphatic to be neglected. The man was sent out of the country in quite different style from that in which he entered it. This man is known to have been present at the consultation relative to the mission. If the jealousy and suspicion on the part of the Prince did not originate with him, there is no doubt that he at least worked on the Prince’s suspicious nature, increasing his jealousy of the growing popularity of the mission, and leading him to think that it would be wise to stop it in its incipiency.

Yet even when the blow was about to fall, we could not believe that the Prince was so treacherous as to plan to drive us out of the country, at the same time that he continued to treat us so kindly, and would even come to dine with us. We could not believe that the younger Princess, who had a predominating influence over her father, could encourage one of the Christians to put himself under her protection, only that he might the more surely be sent to his death a day or two later. We could not believe that an excursion down the river had been planned by the Prince, only that he might be out of reach when the executions should take place. We were still incredulous, even after we received reliable information from the agent of the Borneo Company that he had heard the Prince and a certain high officer consulting together to stop our work. The plan which he reported was to expel the converts from the country, giving their wives and children the option to follow them or to remain. After all, that would not have been so great a disaster. These men had no great possessions to lose. Their banishment would only plant the Gospel in other provinces or other lands.

When, in September, 1869, just before the fatal stroke, the Prince started on what purported to be a three weeks’ fishing trip, we thought that his absence would give us a respite from our present fears, and would afford him leisure for better thoughts. As his boats pushed off, we waved him a parting good-bye from the shore. His first business was at Lampūn, to secure the co-operation of the governor of that province in ridding the country of the new religion. Inasmuch as Sên Yā Wichai, the third convert mentioned above, was a Lampūn officer, it was thought prudent in his case to secure the action of his own immediate superior. He was at once sent for, and was condemned to death, but was saved by his young master, the governor’s son, on the plea that he was a backwoodsman, and knew no better.

Of the deep designs against us and our work we were thus either ignorant or incredulous till, on the evening of September 13th, just before dark, our night watchman came to us with the common excuse for leaving us, that some relative was dead or dying, and insisting that he must go immediately. In vain we urged that he must not leave us thus in the lurch. As a final argument, we threatened to dock him of a month’s wages. But wages were nothing to him then. “All that a man hath will he give for his life.” While we talked to him, he had reached the gate and was gone. So, also, fled the cook and the coolie, leaving only one blind Ngīo who had taken refuge with us.

Mr. Wilson then lived across the river on the new premises, and it was not until the next day that we learned that all his people, too, had fled in like manner and at the same hour. We went to Prayā Tēpasing, the Prince’s executive officer, to enquire the cause. He feigned surprise, and professed entire ignorance of any designs against the Christians. He said, however, that the Prince had given an order that the inhabitants of certain villages should bring in each a hewn slab of timber to repair the stockade. Possibly the scare might have somehow arisen from that. We were aware of the order, and had told the Christians that if pressed for time to procure the timber, they might each take a slab of ours. We now told the Prayā that we would ourselves be responsible for the timbers required of them. To assure us with regard to our servants, the Prayā sent for our cook, gave him a letter assuring his safety, and threatened, besides, to have him flogged if he deserted us. The cook remained with us all through these troubles, until we could find another to take his place. For some reason Mr. Wilson did not avail himself of this offer. He and Mrs. Wilson got on as they could without servants for several months.

We now know that the order for the execution of the Christians had been given long before by that same Prayā Tēpasing—in such fear of the Prince was the highest officer in the realm! Not only had our servants vanished—there was a sudden cessation of our visitors as well. Few even dared to come for medicine for fear of being suspected of becoming Christians. There were, however, a few notable exceptions, the abbot of the Ūmōng monastery being the most conspicuous.

During the following week Mr. Wilson waded out across the flooded country to the home of Nān Chai, his teacher. But his family did not dare to give any information concerning him. To tell what they knew would cost their lives also—so they had been told. He then went on another mile to Noi Sunya’s home, with the same result. The wives of both these men pretended to believe that their husbands had gone to the city to visit us. Mr. Wilson noticed that one of the women had tears in her eyes as she spoke. Puzzled rather than satisfied by the result of the visit, Mr. Wilson returned with the hope that, after all, the men were still alive, and that we yet should see them in the land of the living.

It was two weeks before our suspense was broken by the certainty of their death. On Sunday morning, September 26th, a Ngīo friend and neighbour of the martyrs called at my house. After looking all about him, he asked where the Christians were. I told him there seemed to be a mystery about them that we could not unravel, but we hoped they were secreting themselves in safety somewhere. Seeing that I was really ignorant of their fate, he came close up to me, and looking around again to assure himself that no one was near, he asked, “If I tell you, will you promise never to betray me?” Having demanded and received an emphatic promise equivalent to an oath, he drew his hand significantly across his neck, and whispered, “That is the way.” His gesture was too well understood in that reign to leave any doubt as to what was meant. The man had really come on a sad and dangerous errand of kindness. As soon as it was accomplished, he hurried away, evidently fearing that the birds of the air might hear it, or that some breeze might waft it to the palace.

On Monday morning Mr. Wilson and I went again to the Prayā. He could now no longer lie for his master as to the fact of the execution of the men, but he offered the flimsy excuse that it was because they had not brought in their slabs on time. We were then obliged to charge him with patent falsehood. He knew that they were executed for no crime whatever, but only for being Christians. Poor man! He seemed somewhat ashamed; but what could he do? He was not at heart a bad man, as his letter of protection for the cook showed. The lives of two peasants were no great matter in those days. He had been so trained to execute every behest of his master, that it scarcely occurred to him that he ought to hesitate at this.

But it was some relief to know the worst, and to know that it was known that we knew it. Before this we had been obliged to feign hopes that we hardly believed ourselves. Now we could speak openly. The Prince had not yet returned from his fishing trip; so we went to his elder daughter and her husband, afterward Prince Intanon. In their position they could not say much; but they did say that what the Prince had done was not right, and that they did not approve of the act.

One outcome of the situation was a flood of the wildest rumours—some of them, no doubt, started on purpose to frighten us away. One of these touched us in a most tender point. One of our most faithful servants, who had been with us from the very first, was desirous of visiting Bangkok. So we arranged to have him go down in charge of a boat that was to bring up our supplies for the year. By him we sent a large package of letters written before we had reason to suspect so serious an outcome of the troubles that were brewing. While we could not conceal some gloomy forebodings, our reports were, on the whole, full of hope for the speedy progress of the Gospel. The boat left for Bangkok a few days after the Prince started on his fishing trip. Presently it was reported that the boat had been intercepted, and that this man, with his wife, his son, and his son’s family, even down to a little grandchild of two years old, had been killed, and the boat broken to pieces and burned.

Although such atrocity seemed beyond belief, yet a number of circumstances combined to give the report credibility. Why, for instance, was the long, unusual trip down the river taken just before our boat was to start? What did it mean that, after the murder of the Christians was known, no sum of money could induce a Lāo man to take a letter to Bangkok? If the story of the fate of our messenger were true, the act was the act of a madman—and there is no telling what a madman may not do. He was in a position to keep us from escaping; and if he had really gone so far as that, he evidently did not intend that we should be heard from alive.

For a time we virtually resigned ourselves to what seemed inevitable fate. When we could get no letters sent, we actually began writing the history of those days on the margins of books in our library, so that, if we were never heard from again, some of the precedent circumstances of our end might thus, perhaps, come to light. It was a great relief, therefore, when an influential Burmese, knowing our situation, offered to carry a letter through to our friends in Bangkok.

On September 29th, when the letters carried by the Burmese were written, we were still under the impression that our boatman had been murdered, and that neither he nor the letters and reports carried by him had been heard from. It was the knowledge that these rumours were false, and that he had passed Rahêng in safety, that first relieved our minds. So, too, his arrival in Bangkok gave our friends there the first assurance of our safety. With this explanation the letters themselves will give the best idea of our situation in those dark days. The following is from a letter of Dr. S. R. House to our Mission Board in New York, printed in the _Presbyterian Record_ of February, 1870. It is dated November 11th, 1869.