Among the Burmans: A Record of Fifteen Years of Work and its Fruitage

The Karen village school-teacher, besides his regular work in the school, brings his influence to bear on the parents as well, with the result that in many instances the entire village is won to Christianity. Some of these teachers are marvels of consecration. Poorly fed, poorly clothed, often with no other pay than their meagre fare, far from home and friends,—they are worthy a place among the heroes of our time.

Scores of these schools are now in operation. Their value as an evangelizing agency can hardly be estimated. Many of these teachers are young men, just out of the training-school in town. Following the example of the missionaries under whom they have been trained, and catching something of their spirit, these young men have themselves become missionaries. If in Christian villages without settled pastors, not only the children in the school, but men and women of all ages become their pupils, recognizing the young teachers' superior training, and willingly sitting at their feet, both in their homes and at the regular worship in the village chapel. If in non-Christian villages the teacher, by his school and such other influences as he can bring to bear, excites an interest in Christianity, of which as yet they know nothing.

They wanted a school because they had noticed, or had it impressed upon them by the missionary, that other villages were benefited by having schools. The missionary seizing the opportunity, inserts this entering wedge, with its Christian influences which they would not accept from the regular evangelist. The net is cast, and it gathers of every kind. Soon "the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence" and the whole village would take it by force, only checked by the requirements that they utterly abandon their spirit-worship, and turn unto the Lord with all their hearts.

This requirement not only differentiates the Christian villages from the heathen, but from the Roman Catholic villages as well, for the latter are allowed to retain all their old customs and vices, adding thereto the vices of their foreign teachers. Martin B. Anderson once wrote to a friend—"The work of our eastern missions is vastly more comprehensive than ordinary Christians suppose. It is nothing else than the creation, among a heathen, semi-barbarous, and ignorant population, of the most advanced type of Christian civilization. This at least ought to be the ideal which we should have before our minds, and for whose realization we should constantly labour. The cultivation of the moral and religious nature of man should be carried on simultaneously with the highest practical development of the intellectual powers. Can such an education as our eastern converts require be communicated to them through their vernacular languages? My own impression is that it cannot. It (the English language) comes to them freighted with all the intellectual accumulations of the past. It brings to them the terminology of spiritual religion, of the science of the mind, and the science of God. Their preachers and teachers, and moral and political leaders must be trained in English, or their education will be inadequate and narrow."

The foregoing pages describe some of the many methods employed by our missionaries, who would "by all means ... save some."

IX

"WITH PERSECUTIONS"

Amarapura had been the capital of Burma forty years when, in 1823, a great fire destroyed some of the royal buildings. Having decided that Amarapura was an unlucky place the capital was restored to Ava.

Judson's first visit to the capital occurred at this time. The king had requested him to open a mission at Ava, and offered land for the purpose. Then a war cloud on the western coast arose to darken his prospects. The British at Chittagong refused to deliver up certain Burmans who had taken refuge there.

In 1824 the Burman king declared war. Several Englishmen who were then at Ava, were seized and thrust into prison.

Judson and his associate, Dr. Price, suspected of being in league with the English, were also imprisoned.

The son of Bodawp'ra, known in history as Badawgyi, was then king.

The Burman kingdom, with the exception of Chittagong, was yet intact. The haughty king imagined himself to be the most powerful monarch on earth; and that his cities were impregnable, his armies invincible. Unable to discriminate between Americans and Englishmen, the king caused all white men to be thrown into prison together.

Eleven months at Ava and six months at Aungbinle Judson and Dr. Price suffered indescribable misery.

Bound with chains, crowded in with scores of natives, famishing from lack of suitable food, the whole place reeking in filth. Mental distress was almost equal to the physical, for Judson's beloved wife and child, whom he longed to see, were also suffering. In the providence of God their lives were spared, but they would feel the effects of such sufferings to the end of their days.

A school history of Burma contains this touching reference to the released missionaries and Europeans: "A sadder spectacle has seldom been presented to living human beings than that which was offered to the English camp by those liberated captives. They were covered with filthy rags, they were worn to skin and bones, and their haggard countenances, sunken, wandering eyes, told but too plainly the frightful story of their long suffering, their incessant alarms, and their apprehension of a doom worse than death." Such was the experience of the first missionary to Burma. The oft-repeated remark, "The days of missionary heroism are past," has done much to deaden interest in foreign missions. It is not my purpose to give a prominent place to the subject of missionary sacrifices.

A few illustrations, which might be multiplied, will serve to show to what extent the spirit of Burman Buddhists has changed since the time when they inflicted upon Judson such terrible tortures.

In 1842, a few years after Judson triumphantly held aloft the last leaf of the Bible translated into the Burman language, the first martyr laid down his life "for Christ's sake and the gospel's." His name was Klo Mai,—a converted Karen. A company of Burmans broke into his house, abused him cruelly, threatening his life if he would not recant.

His son Shwe Nyo, also a Christian, leaped to the ground and hid himself in the jungle, but not until he had been severely stabbed. Klo Mai was dragged from his house and crucified by his heartless tormentors. Bound to a hastily constructed bamboo cross, in the form of a letter X, he was left to die, and did die, rather than deny his Master.

His son Shwe Nyo, became an effective preacher of the gospel, stimulated to the greater earnestness by his father's faithful example.

Surely he "bore in his body the brand-marks of the Lord Jesus," for he carried with him until his death in 1892, the scar of that stab received in his youth.

Buddhism has been said to be the most tolerant of all non-Christian religions; and the Burmese the most tolerant of all Buddhist peoples. This may be true, up to a certain point. Judson gave as the reason why Portuguese Roman Catholics were left unmolested in Burma, that "very few Burmans entered that church, proselytism being the only thing in foreign religions to which Buddhists object." But to gain a convert from Buddhism he declared to be "like pulling the tooth of a tiger."

With the establishing of an elaborate police-system, by the British government, and the certainty that crime would be punished, missionaries and native converts no longer had reason to fear the more violent forms of persecution. But the Burman still found ways to persecute, without laying himself liable to the law of the land, when one of his people had the temerity to forsake the ancestral religion.

A case of this kind was very soon brought to our notice. Our personal teacher was a young convert. In his native village he had heard the gospel from a travelling evangelist; learned more from tracts that were given him; believed what he heard and read, and openly declared his belief to his people. This excited such anger and opposition that he was obliged to run away from home. His people followed him to the mission, threatening to kill him if he did not renounce Christianity, and return to his village. The young man again escaped from his persecutors, and remained in hiding until they returned to their homes. The missionary gave him the training he so earnestly desired, and he became an effective preacher. A few years later, in company with the missionary and others, he returned to his village and openly proclaimed Christ before them all. At our mission station a middle-aged man was led to Christ by this young man. The new convert's wife and others bitterly opposed his companying with the Christians, and attending their worship. When it became known that he was to be baptized, his mother followed him to the river and earnestly besought him to give up his crazy purpose. Failing in this she returned home and told his wife that her husband had actually been baptized before her eyes. This so enraged her that she snatched his clothing from its place, and would have cut it to bits had not the mother prevented her. For several days and nights the husband and father had to remain away from his family, waiting for the atmosphere to clear. At last the wife consented to live with him, but her continued opposition was a source of great unhappiness until, a few years later, he was called to "come up higher." At another mission station an old man became a convert, and felt it his duty to be baptized. At first he shrank from it, knowing what the consequences would be, but he felt that he should "obey God rather than man." His decision raised a terrible storm of opposition. His own grown-up children joined with the rest in calling him crazy. They tore around like fiends, slapped and pushed the poor old man, and twice knocked him to the ground, before the missionary could rescue him. It was a terrible test, but God was with him.

Encouraged by the missionary, he walked out of the village to the waterside, and without one of his relations to witness his "obedience of faith" he followed his Lord in baptism. Radiant with joy he returned to the village, though he knew that henceforth his foes would be "they of his own household."

Another missionary has given the following account of the conversion and baptism of a pupil in one of the mission schools.

In a distant village lived a young Christian Burman, with his heathen wife. He was the only Christian in the place, and for miles around. Unflinchingly he confessed Christ as his Saviour, in the face of much prejudice and opposition. One night men burst into his house and demanded his money and other valuables. Not securing so much as they expected, they began beating him with their clubs. He shouted with all his might, but not a soul stirred in the surrounding houses. With each blow they reviled him saying, "Can Jesus save you? Can Jesus Christ save you?" Having satisfied their brutal instincts, and being unable to secure more plunder they descended to the ground, dragging the young man with them. As they passed through the village they shouted threateningly, "Let no one follow us." There was little danger that any one would follow. There was not a light in the village, and not a head showed itself. Doubtless some of the villagers were in league with these villains, others were intimidated, supposing they were dacoits.

The young man, bruised and suffering, was forced to accompany his persecutors about a mile, where they released him. He worked his way back to the village, and on the following day persuaded two men to take him to the nearest railway station, six miles away.

Jungle roads were impassable, but he made the journey astride a buffalo. Reaching the mission station he was examined by the medical missionary, who found that he had sustained a green fracture of two ribs, besides a serious scalp wound and many bruises. Acting on information furnished by the missionary, the police traced and captured the whole band. They were sentenced to terms in the penitentiary, ranging from four to seven years.

Here is an extract from a missionary's account of a tour made in 1883 to a town in Upper Burma where now is a Christian church and school:

As has been said, there is little reason, at the present time, to fear for one's life. But such instances of persecution as here given are being repeated at every station where mission work among Buddhists is being carried on. Here we have enacted before our eyes a living commentary on these words of Christ: "Think not that I came to send peace on the earth. I came not to send peace, but a sword. For I came to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man's foes shall be they of his own household. He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me." The doctrine that "There is no other name whereby we must be saved" inevitably would produce this very result, as every missionary witnesses.

It is my profound conviction that missionaries and native converts owe the safety of their lives, under God, to the strong arm of the British Indian government. Doubtless the majority of Burman Buddhists, if left to themselves, would tolerate any foreign religion in their midst.

But they are not left to themselves. The priest is the Pharisee of Buddhism; each idol-maker a modern Demetrius. The one says: "Only by our hold upon the superstitious reverence of the people we have sustenance." The other says: "Only by this business have we our wealth."

Both hate the Christian evangelist with a bitter hatred. Take away the strong arm of the law which, by many severe lessons, they have learned to respect, these emissaries of Satan would make the advent of a Christian evangelist an occasion of rioting rivalling that of Ephesus.

Judson's experiences would be repeated in the experience of many a missionary. As it is there are scores of Buddhists who secretly admit that Christianity is right, but dare not openly break away from the toils of this Buddhist hierarchy.

The reign of Badawgyi, the king that imprisoned Dr. Judson, extended to 1857. During the last years his authority was but nominal.

The humiliation of his defeat by the English; loss of territory; and from 1830, the degradation of being compelled to have a British resident in the royal city finally drove him insane. In that condition he remained until his death, in 1845. So ended the career of this cruel king under whom Dr. Judson suffered. At about this time the capital was again transferred to Amarapura, which remained the capital until the founding of Mandalay, in 1860.

Ava was left to fall to ruin. From the founding of Ava until it was finally abandoned, thirty kings had reigned there, for periods from a few months up to thirty-eight years, including temporary changes of the capital.

I visited the site of Ava in August, 1903, crossing the Irrawadi River, from Sagaing. The old city wall, from which much of the brickwork has been removed, still stretches along the bank of the river for two miles. The main entrance, through which Judson must have passed and repassed, is still intact, though the great gates have disappeared.

The city was built in the angle formed by the junction of the Irrawadi and Myitngi Rivers, and extended back along the Myitngi one and a half miles. A smaller inner wall enclosed the palace and other royal buildings. Only one building of the entire city is still standing.

This building is of brick, plastered on the outside with cement, and represents the best workmanship of which their imported Indian architects and masons were capable. It is about twenty-five feet square and seventy-five feet high, and is without doors or windows. There was a brick and plaster stairway on the outside, winding around the tower. From some unknown cause the tower long ago settled on one side, so that it leans fully six feet out of perpendicular. This settling threw down the massive brick stairway, which now lies in chaotic ruin.

This lofty building, standing within the royal quarters, was the watch-tower. From its top long views up and down the great river, and out over the open plains, could be obtained. Sentinels paced its top to give timely warning of the approach of an enemy. On a great gong they struck the hours by day and night. The sound, easily reaching far beyond the limits of the royal grounds, would be welcomed by Judson and his fellow sufferers to break the awful monotony of life in the miserable prison, which stood outside the inner wall. The prison was demolished many years ago, but within the memory of Burmans now living near by. Around a large tree, that must have been large enough in Judson's time to furnish partial shade from the fierce rays of the tropical sun, a circular platform of old brickwork still remains. Broken brick and roofing-tile cover the ground.

Much of the site of the old city is covered with tangled jungle-growth, through which chetahs and other animals sometimes prowl. A score of Burmans are slowly digging up the ground to the depth of about three feet over the entire area once covered by the royal buildings. Now and then their labours are rewarded by finds of jewelry or silver.

The finer earth below the layer of débris is washed for gold dust, from the many gold-decorated buildings that have marked the spot through the reign of many kings.

The sight of the Ava prison having been identified beyond a doubt, the Baptists of America would do well to place there a suitable monument to mark the spot where their first missionary suffered so much "for Christ's sake and the gospel's."

After suffering for eleven long months at Ava the prisoners were transferred to Aungbinle, a day's journey to the northeast. In company with the missionary at Mandalay I rode to the place, two days before my visit to Ava. Aungbinle is about five miles east of Mandalay, towards the hills. Among the public works of Bodawp'ra, who reigned from 1789 to 1819, was an artificial lake, formed by a raised embankment of earth enclosing about fifteen square miles of the nearly level plain.

This was filled by means of a canal connecting with a natural lake two or three miles farther north, fed by mountain streams.

In these two reservoirs abundance of water for irrigation could be stored for use through the many rainless months. This artificial lake was called "Aung-binle"—the conquered or shut-in sea.

At its southwest bend Aungbinle village still stands, though its thatch-and-bamboo houses have been renewed ten times over since Judson was brought there to be thrown into the death-prison.

The site of this prison also has been identified beyond a reasonable doubt. An aged Burman there pointed out the spot to missionaries who were investigating the matter several years ago.

A Burman official who had been there many years, and was familiar with land-titles, confirmed the old man's story. More recently an old brick pathway was discovered when ditching the road that passes the prison-site. This further corroborated the statement of the two Burmans that the police quarters were on the north side of this road, and the prison on the south. There is little room for doubt that the brick pathway connected the two. The prison itself was only a bamboo structure, of which nothing would now be left.

A Buddhist monastery erected later near the prison-site, was destroyed by fire a few years ago. There are two pagodas within a stone's throw, one of which may have stood there in Judson's time.

Except a few slender palms, the region must have been treeless, the heat indescribable. The location of Mrs. Judson's house is uncertain. Judging from the situation of the village, and the character of the land near by it must have been quite near the prison.

The Baptist mission has secured about two acres of land, including the prison-site. By the generous gift of two American Baptists who recently visited Aungbinle, a neat and substantial brick chapel has been erected on the prison-site, as nearly as can be determined. A little farther back, and to one side, is the Burman preacher's house, also included in the gift. The missionary, who frequently visits the village, has provided a miniature cottage of thatch-and-bamboo, in which to rest and find protection from the mid-day heat. As one attempts to realize the situation as it was,—Judson suffering untold agonies, aggravated by his heartless tormentors,—in the miserable prison; Mrs. Judson, in her isolation and friendlessness, suffering from privation, intolerable heat, disease, and the yet greater mental suffering on account of her husband who might at any moment be led to execution before her eyes,—the picture becomes more and more terrible. Then as we turn again to the chapel and preacher's house our thoughts rise in praise to Him who has wrought these changed conditions. On the very spot where the innocent and the guilty were together imprisoned and tortured, an earnest man of God, of the same race as the king by whose order these men suffered,—now proclaims Jesus Christ as the world's Saviour.

As I turned away from this spot, and again as I passed out through the old gateway at Ava, it was with an earnest prayer that a double portion of Judson's spirit might rest upon his successors in this heathen land.

X

HEROES AND HEROINES

If heroes and heroines are men and women who have shown startling qualities in time of stress and strife, many such may be found among converts from heathenism. The examples here given are from my own fellow workers.

U Po Hline, pastor of the church at Pyinmana, is well known in the Burman mission. A conspicuous figure at conventions and associations, his massive form, intelligent face, and dignified bearing mark him a "Saul among his brethren." But U Po Hline's interesting history is not so well known. His early life was spent in the yellow robes of the Buddhist priesthood. There he learned the real inwardness and emptiness of the ancestral religion. In it he could not find that which could satisfy his spiritual sense; nor was he satisfied to lead the indolent, selfish life of the Buddhist priest.

But familiarity with their arguments and contents of their sacred books, gained during the years of monastic life, was yet to be turned to good account. Casting off the yellow robes he became a tiller of the soil. By industry and good management not common to his race, he possessed himself of rice-fields, bullocks, and buffaloes, and money interests among the villagers where he lived.

Loyalty to the British Indian government never has been, and is not to-day true of the mass of Burmans. U Po Hline's broader intelligence led him not only to accept the inevitable, but also to see what benefits would accrue to his race from English rule. He used his influence to restrain his people from acts of violence, and in various ways lent his aid to the progress of law and order.

In those troublous times he had an adventure, of which he never speaks unless questioned on the subject. Returning from Rangoon where he had marketed his harvest of tsan,—unhulled rice,—he and his boatmen were attacked by dacoits. The boatmen, terrified by the fiendish yells of these desperate dacoits, threw down their paddles and would have tried to escape by taking to the water. Not so U Po Hline.

Neither his life nor his rupees were to be taken so easily. Crawling under the paung, he seized his rifle, and,—to use his own words—"Two of the dacoits sank in the water, and did not reappear." The tables were turned. The dacoits, now as badly frightened as the boatmen, lost no time in taking to the brush. U Po Hline still remembers the adventure with the sad feeling that although acting in self-defense, he sent two souls into eternity unprepared. His conversion is especially interesting. A copy of the New Testament, given him by a native evangelist, was the means of shaking his faith in Buddhism; and of awakening a desire to know more about the "Jesus Christ religion."

Relating the circumstances of his conversion he said: "I kept my New Testament in my jacket pocket wherever I went. When resting from my work I would take out my Testament and read a little, slowly going on through Matthew, Mark, and Luke,—but I understood nothing of what I read. I read about the birth of Jesus Christ, His teaching, His wonderful miracles,—but who Christ was I did not know. Then I came to John. In the first chapter I read: 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.' Then a little farther down I read: 'That Word everything created; and without a divine creating was not so much as one thing.' Is that so, I said. Did that Word make me? and not only me, but everybody and everything in all this great world? And then I read that He was the Light, and the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness would not receive it. Why, I said, that is just the way it is here. These people are in the dark, and will not believe what the preachers of the Jesus Christ religion say to them.

"Then still farther down I read: 'The Word took the state of man, and lived among us.' And as I read on, I found that the Word that was with God, and was God; and created all things; and became flesh and lived on earth was the same Jesus Christ that I had been reading about in Matthew, Mark and Luke! I went home and told my wife that I had become a Christian; and that as the preacher said that all who enter the Jesus Christ religion must receive the dipping ceremony I am going to get baptism." "Were you not afraid your heathen neighbours would make trouble?" I asked him. "What trouble could they make, teacher? Nearly all of them were in debt to me. But when I told my heathen wife, she was very angry, and said, 'Very well. If you want to be baptized,—be baptized,—but I will not be a Jesus Christ wife. I never, never will live with you.' Finding that she would not relent I said: 'Do not go away.

"'All this trouble is not because of your changing, but because of my changing. If anybody is to suffer, I must be the one to suffer. There are the eleven buffaloes, and the six rice-fields, and the house, and the banana garden,—take everything,—only let me have the thirty rupees in the box, and I will go away. I will go to Toungoo. If they will not baptize me there, I will go to Henzada. If they will not baptize me there, I will go to Bassein. If they will not baptize me there, I will go to Maulmein.' I had taken the Jesus Christ religion with my whole mind, and I was determined to be baptized." This was no idle boast.

He meant just what he said, and, like Paul, was ready to suffer the loss of everything, that he "might gain Christ, and be found in Him."

His example, so unlike his former self, soon softened his wife's heart, and she now said: "Never mind, do as you like,—we will live together."

Not long afterwards she too became a Christian. Wherever U Po Hline went he fearlessly preached Christ. But it was in his own village that his influence was specially felt. His faithfulness and success seemed sufficient evidence of a call to the ministry. Greatly needing such helpers, I soon arranged for him to give his whole time to evangelistic work. His ordination, at the Pegu Association held in Toungoo in 1894,—will long be remembered by the missionaries present.

A missionary at a frontier station sent a request that an ordained preacher be furnished to baptize several converts already gained, and to accompany his young preachers on a tour among the villages.

The matter was laid before U Po Hline, and left for him to decide whether he wished to go, or could stand the long hard journey over the mountain ranges. Accepting it as a call from God, and trusting to Him for strength, he got ready and started at once. After spending a month in that distant field, he prepared to return to his home. It was a long tramp of sixteen days. The missionary gave him money to hire a coolie to help carry his load. Besides his roll of bedding, cooking utensils and food, one of the young preachers had given him three lacquer-ware vessels, as presents for his former teachers. The coolie must be paid in advance, according to the custom of the country. After going a few miles the coolie found an excuse to get out of U Po Hline's sight, and ran away, taking the money with him. At the next village another coolie was engaged, who must also be paid in advance. They had gone but a short distance when he too ran away. U Po Hline was now without money to pay for help, so he trudged on alone, carrying the load of two.

He got along very well so long as his path lay along the mountains. But when he descended into the plains his strength gave out, and he found himself burning with fever. There was no other way than to plod on, as he was now far from any village. Finding himself unable to carry all of his double load, he first threw away some of the cooking utensils.

Growing weaker, he threw away the bottle of oil and part of the rice.

He would not part with the presents that had been entrusted to his care for the teachers, whom he loved. To give the rest of the story in his own words:—"I would plod on until my legs would sustain me no longer. Then on my knees I would pray: 'O Father, I have been away doing Thy work, I did the best I could, now give me strength to reach my home.'

"Then I would get up and go on again until, from weakness, I fell down in the path. Then I would pray again: 'O Father, I have been away to do Thy work. I did the very best I could. Now do give me strength to reach my home.' So I went on, falling, praying, struggling on again, until at last I reached the cart-road, and joined some cartmen. I had carefully saved my last rupee to pay my fare when I should come to the railroad. I thought,—if I must, I can sell my silk turban. But the cartmen were kind, and gave me food, while I preached to them." As he finished his story he untied the bundle, and laid the lacquer-ware presents at our feet, utterly unconscious of the fact that by his devotion to his teachers, and to what seemed to be his duty he had shown a spirit of true heroism, worthy to be "told as a memorial" of him.

A short time before I left Burma U Po Hline came to me and said, "Saya, I have been thinking like this:—The Apostle Paul said to the Corinthian Christians, 'Paul planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase.' When Saya came to Pyinmana thirteen years ago there was not a Christian in this town nor in all this great jungle. No nor ever had been. It was all wild, the dwelling place of dacoits, tigers, bears, and snakes. Saya has been planting all these years. There has been some reaping, to be sure,—but much more is ready for reaping. When I first came to Pyinmana, wherever I showed myself, in Bazar or street, the people would call to one another: 'Come and see Jesus Christ, come and see Jesus Christ.' 'Yes,' I would say, 'I am here to represent Jesus Christ.' Sometimes they would listen to my preaching, but often they would jeer so that I could not preach, they were so ignorant and wild.

"But now, besides our little company of Christians, there are many in these villages who listen attentively, and some are truly 'considering.'

"Now Saya must return to America, and another Saya will come. Don't go away discouraged, Saya. We shall soon be reaping here. You will hear about it, and be glad. If it is God's will that you return to Burma, you will 'come rejoicing.' When I first came to Pyinmana,"—he continued; "I had a dream. In my dream I saw great fields of rice on three sides of this town. These fields were turning yellow, promising an early and large harvest. How like the Bible, is my dream, I thought. This dream strengthened my faith and made me glad. God's time is not yet full, but I believe it will be full soon. This Pyinmana mission is Corinth. Saya is Paul. Saya has planted, the coming missionary will be Apollos, to water the planting. God will give the increase." May this noble Christian hero live many years, to cheer and help the missionaries, in their common effort to dispel the heathen darkness.

This faithful native pastor is but one of many who hold not their lives dear to themselves that they may accomplish their course and the ministry which they have received from the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of God.

Nan Paw was born in Yā-bok-kōn village, in the year 1877,—so she thinks, but is not certain as to the village or the date. When we first saw her she was an orphan, as to her father; worse than orphaned as to her heathen mother. Both Nan Paw and her elder sister had already been several years in the mission school. The sister, Mai Lone, came first. Now and then she returned to her village home with such wonderful stories of tidy white jackets, pretty longyis (skirts), clean beds, and nice new books, that little Nan Paw wanted to come too. She wanted to see the big "white mamma," and enjoy the life that her sister was leading. Mai Lone had learned to read,—a wonderful thing for a girl to do. Not a girl in the whole village could read, no, not even her own mother! And Mai Lone could sing, too! Little Nan Paw sighed for these privileges and accomplishments, and was a heathen no longer. Never again could she know contentment among the dogs and filth and degradation of her own village. But in vain she entreated her mother to let her go with Mai Lone to live at the mission school. Finding that her pleadings were of no avail, she took the matter into her own hands, and ran away. The mother finding her little girl settled down in the mission dormitory to stay, finally gave her consent. When we came to take charge of the school Nan Paw had already overtaken the older girls in her studies. The smallest in the class, she was head and shoulders above them all in brightness and winsomeness. To see her was to love her. It would not do to make a pet of her, for petting spoils native children as quickly as kittens. Quick to see what needed to be done, and how to do it, she soon became very useful about the house. A little later a Christian Endeavour Society was organized. Nan Paw may have learned to love Jesus before this; but now, with several others she gave herself to Him fully and openly, and to the great joy of all, was baptized. The years rolled by,—and Nan Paw, having passed through all the grades of the mission school, became a teacher. During a vacation she made a visit to some of her heathen relations in a distant village. When the school reopened she did not return to her duties. Several weeks had passed when we learned that she had returned to her mother's village. We sent word to her two or three times, urging her to return to the school, though we could not compel her to do so. At last one of the Christians went to her home to ascertain, if possible, why she had become unfaithful to her duties as a Christian teacher. He brought back word that something was the matter with Nan Paw. When he tried to talk with her she would keep her hands covered, and try to conceal her face behind her scarf. With a sad face he said, "I think our Nan Paw is a leper."

Measures were taken at once to ascertain the facts. Alas it was too true. In some way or other,—whether by heredity or contagion we could not learn,—our dear Nan Paw had become a victim to that terrible disease. How our hearts ached for her. Now we knew why she had not returned to the school. While we were fearing that she was yielding to heathen influences; and that she was making a poor return for all the affection we had bestowed upon her, the dear girl's heart was nearly breaking. She knew that she must bid farewell to her pleasant life in the mission, and to her beloved associates. All aspirations to support herself, to rise in her chosen work, to be respected, to marry well—were utterly crushed. Henceforth she must be an outcast, despised by her own people. Nothing before her but a living death, the disease steadily growing upon her, until fingers and toes would waste away, her whole body become covered with repulsive sores,—and no power on earth could help her.

After a time arrangements were made to send her to the Leper Asylum at Mandalay, over two hundred miles away. There, under the direction of the missionary in charge Nan Paw became a teacher of others—afflicted like herself. It would not have been strange had she utterly given up to despair,—and sought release by death. But with wonderful submission she gave herself to Christian work,—the only woman in the asylum who could read and teach the Word of God.

Here is a translation of one of Nan Paw's letters to her sister:

But after a year in the asylum Nan Paw longed to return to her native village. This she was permitted to do. The disease grew worse and worse.

Her people, backed by the village priest, then made a determined effort to break down this poor girl's faith in Christ, and turn her again to Buddhism. They knew how to cure the disease, they claimed, and would cure it if she would worship the priest. Pressed beyond endurance she at last in sheer despair prostrated herself before the priest in the attitude of worship. They then gave her medicine several months, the disease all the time growing upon her. Not only the terrible leprosy of the body, but her soul was troubled with the thought that by dishonouring her Lord she had become leprous with sin.

One day when they wanted her to join them in their heathen worship she broke out in great indignation: "No I never will worship like that again. By your false and useless promises you made me deny my Lord. But from this time I do it no more. I turn again to my own God, who can at least save my soul." Again Nan Paw sent word that she wished to go back to the asylum. She was an outcast in her own village, and in her own mother's home. No one dared to see her. She cared to see no one. At the Asylum she could be no unhappier. There all would be alike unfortunate,—birds of a feather flock together.

I immediately arranged for her return. The native Christians contributed generously to make up the required sum. As Nan Paw would be a teacher, the superintendent kindly offered to provide special quarters for her, apart from the other lepers. I sent word to Nan Paw that I wished to see her before she went away, for I was soon to return to America, and might never see her again; that I loved her as a daughter, just the same as before her misfortune. But she sent back the pathetic reply: "To dear teacher this brief letter I write. That God may pour a blessing upon teacher and all the church members I am praying.

"But I am not fit to be seen. To show my face I am ashamed. I do not even meet my friends in the village. Therefore please excuse me. By the half-past eight train I am going to Mandalay. There is with me a very great sorrow. In no place is there any gladness. Only sorrow's tears are ever falling. Now because teacher, by the favour of God, is trying to help me, it is a great kindness. And teacher has written favourably to Mandalay in order that I may go. That I may be set free from my great sorrow, and that God may speedily gather to Himself my soul, ever pray." But when circumstances made it necessary for her to come to my house she overcame her fears, and in the dim light let me talk with her, face to face. Again I assured her that "Sayah and Mama" loved her the same as before; that her Saviour's love was just the same; that by and by we would be together in heaven, and all be alike, with all these earthly distresses left behind.

In the asylum Nan Paw is the only Christian woman among about seventy-five of her own sex and race. Every day she conducts religious exercises; and every Sunday she stands by the pulpit in the chapel to set forth Christ as Saviour. After she had been there a few weeks she sent back this letter: "Dearly beloved teacher. I reverently greet you, and pray that God may pour His Spirit upon you and all the Christians, to do His work. Especially, according to teacher's efforts, in order to do the divine work in this place,—by God's guidance I have come.

"There have now been three Sundays, and I have preached. The first Sunday I explained Matt. 5:1-12. The second Sunday I explained John 3:1-21. The third Sunday I explained Acts 13:1-12,—about the ruler's faith and God's power. God planned that I should be brought to this place. Nevertheless, teacher,—though I seek ease of mind in this world, I find only distress. Therefore pray that God may speedily take my spirit. Because teacher,—according to the will of God, has helped me, I praise God's mercy.

"Your daughter,

"Ma Nan Paw."

In this child of the jungle, brought to Christ through the agency of the mission school, stricken with a loathsome disease in the prime of life; submissively bowing to the will of God, and striving to show others how to escape from the leprosy of sin, we see the true martyr-spirit. One day the Master will come and touch her with His finger, saying "Be thou clean," and receive her into His Paradise above.

XI

PECULIAR EXPERIENCES

It is well for the weary worker in a strange land that with the austere and sublime, there is now and then a spicing of the ridiculous.

Happy the man who is so constituted as to appreciate the ridiculous when it happens. A few such instances will serve to illustrate the many-sidedness of missionary life. The first was when the writer was a new missionary; otherwise it might not have happened. The boarding-school occupied the ground floor of the mission bungalow, the missionaries living above it. One day a great commotion was heard in the schoolyard. Looking out of the window, the school children could be seen scattering in all directions. The old saying "Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost," was being enacted in a very realistic manner.

Hard after the "hindmost" was a demoniac, a crazy Karen woman.

Evidently the children had been teasing her, but oh how they did repent, as they ran! This terrible creature had seized a short bamboo, and was rushing after them in insane fury. Poising it like a spear, she hurled it endwise. Happily it missed its mark, or there would have been a name or two to strike off the school roll. Advancing at double-quick I got between the children and the enemy before she could make another charge. Whether by faith or by force I must now cast out a demon. Pointing to the gate, I said "go." She went not. "Go," I repeated, and suiting the action to the word, started for the gate with my incumbrance. Started,—only that and nothing more. There seemed to be two opinions as to ways and means. I recalled a remark—"The natives are coming to think for themselves." It must be true. This particular native suddenly collapsed, sinking to the ground, in a disgusting heap of obstinacy. Filthy beyond description, hair matted and tangled, her whole person so covered with vermin that she was scarcely responsible for her movements,—what to do with her I was at a loss to know. It was a larger contract than had been bargained for. Something must be done, or the missionary would lose prestige with the school, and be subjected to repeated annoyances by this crazy woman. Picking her up by main strength, we started again. There was a short struggle at the corner of the house, where she grasped a post with both arms, and held on with the tenacity of an octopus. Disengaging her from the post, I thought to get up sufficient momentum to carry her safely through the gate, but failed. Again there was a tug of war. Again might made right, and our unsavoury guest gave up the struggle. Casting back a wild but vanquished look, she departed, never to come back.

We will pass to the "hot season" of our second year.

The missionaries of the station were spending a few weeks of it on a mountain twenty miles from town. One mission building was in process of construction,—work that demanded frequent inspection. To look after this work I must make the round trip of forty miles once a week, while resting. At one time, passing through a Karen village, the pastor lent me his pony for the journey. On reaching town I threw the lines to a schoolboy, who unsaddled the pony and turned it loose in the compound. When ready to return to the mountains it was found that the pony had walked out through an open gate, and was missing. Search was made, but the pony was nowhere to be seen. While waiting for the day to cool, the pony returned of his own accord, and came trotting into the compound. This was luck indeed. The schoolboy quickly saddled and bridled the pony, and away I went, anxious to make up the time I had lost. Arriving at the Karen village I hitched the pony under the owner's house. A grown-up daughter sitting on the stairs, modestly inquired "Where is our pony?" "What's the matter with this pony?" I asked. "Our pony is a male," she said. The missionary took off his hat. He scratched his head. It was dawning upon him that he was in a pretty mess. If this is not the pony I borrowed, then where is he? and whose pony have I stolen? And where shall I find the money to pay for the other pony, if not recovered,—which is an even chance? how shall I explain being in possession of this one, if called to account? It did not take long for these questions to go through my mind. The case called for prompt action, but my empty stomach was calling for food. Mounting the stolen pony I proceeded up the mountain. Before reaching camp, the Karen pastor's son came hurrying up the path, riding on the lost pony. The pony had returned to his own village, fifteen miles, afoot and alone. One problem was solved, and my mind relieved to that extent. But in the eye of the law, should the law find it out,—I was a criminal, for my explanation might or might not be accepted. As the sun was going down, one of the larger schoolboys who was at the camp,—started back to town with the other pony. I gave him a letter addressed to the police, taking upon myself the responsibility. The boy was not to trouble the police if the police did not trouble him. Going by the most unfrequented roads, he arrived in town before midnight. Turning the pony loose where first seen, he hurried back to the mountain as fast as his legs would carry him, reaching camp before sunrise. The missionary never knew whose pony he had taken. It is doubtful whether the owner ever missed it.

At one time I was passing through an unfamiliar jungle accompanied by a coolie, who also acted as guide. Darkness was coming on and good time must be made, or we must spend the night in the jungle.

Coming to a place where two roads met, I chose the right hand road but the guide insisted that the left hand road was the one to take. The missionary reluctantly yielded to the coolie's better knowledge of the jungle paths. We went on and on, but instead of coming out into open country, the jungle grew more and more dense. We were lost. It was now pitch dark, so that even the wrong road could no longer be followed. There was nothing left but to spend the night where we were. Just as we had made up our minds to this, I caught sight of a light, through the trees. Groping our way ahead we discovered that we were near a small Karen village. In response to our shouts two men came to meet us, with guns and torches. They were Christian Karens, and glad to find that the belated guest was a missionary, rather than a dacoit. I soon made myself at home with the family and until a late hour friendly conversation was kept up, through the medium of Burmese. The children were brought to be inspected and praised. The baby, several months old, had not been named. Wouldn't the teacher please give the baby a name? It is quite customary for the Karens to ask their missionaries to name the babies. To this particular missionary, whose work was wholly among Burmans, it was a unique experience. He had a dear relative in the home-land, named Julia. She should be honoured with a namesake. "Please write it out, because we might forget it," they said. But there was not a scrap of paper in the house. Taking the cover from one of my lunch cans the name was carefully scratched on the inside with a pocket knife, and handed over to be laid up in the family archives. At last the baby had a name, and the mother was happy. Now it was time, and long past time, to get a little sleep. The best mat was unrolled and spread in the open front, for the teacher. In the coolie's baskets was a change of clothing, greatly needed after the dust and perspiration of this long day,—but how could clothing be changed?—Nor husband nor wife nor daughter would retire until they should see how the teacher did it. The natives themselves usually sleep in the same clothes they have worn all day. Is a change desired they have only to put on an extra longyi—skirt, and let the inner skirt fall to the floor. They have no idea how the white people are dressed, until they see them undress. Such an event is too rare to be missed. Husband, wife, and grown-up daughters will stand by, with all the interest of a medical class in a dissecting room, while he takes himself apart, picking up each piece as he lays it off, with comments such as only the untutored child of the jungle would ever think of. There was no help for it,—so, kicking off my shoes, I stretched out as I was, with my saddle for a pillow. The family then retired, but evidently feeling that they had not seen their money's worth.

Wishing to enjoy the luxury of a bath in a stream, one is sometimes obliged to wander off in the opposite direction, to throw the villagers off the scent. Were his purpose known, he would have so many of the native maidens at his heels, as to render the situation somewhat embarrassing.

At break of day we were conducted through the jungle by a short cut to the path we should have followed. Having no opportunity to revisit that village, I never knew what became of little "U-lee."

Another experience was certainly interesting at the time, and might have been the last, with no one to describe it. Returning alone from a jungle tour, I reached a river at nine o'clock at night.

There was no moon, but the stars were shining. The opposite bank, high and steep, could be dimly seen against the sky. During the floods of the rainy season the bank had caved off, so that neither man nor beast could ascend it. The natives had dug out a narrow path diagonally up the bank. In the darkness this path could not be seen from the other side. Two Burmans, who were fishing by torchlight, pointed out the direction in which the path would be found. Taking a star to steer by, I forced the pony into the river. Soon the water became too deep for fording, and I felt the rather uncomfortable sensation of riding in the saddle on a swimming pony. By daylight it would not have been so serious, though the current was strong. In the darkness and alone, it was not so pleasant to be in deep water, in mid-river.

The pony struggled bravely on until he reached the bank, and scrambled up on a ledge of joint-clay. There was no path to be seen. The pony had landed in a little cove where the perpendicular bank rose from the water's edge. Back into the river he must go. This he refused to do. Getting between the pony and the wall I pushed him off the ledge, springing into the saddle as he went down. The pony was then headed up stream, first swimming around a tree that had fallen into the river. No path to be found in that direction. Returning down-stream, now wading, now swimming—the path was found at last.

A thankful missionary sat down on the bank under the twinkling stars, and wrung the water out of his clothes as best he could, before continuing his journey.

The missionary candidate dreams of the time when he will break the bread of life to the heathen. His dream will be realized, in time,—but he will do a great many other things, of which he never dreamed.

He may not know a plane from a plummet, yet there are houses to build, and he must be both architect and superintendent. He must understand, or learn to understand everything that pertains to the upkeep and conduct of a large mission, with its many-sided work. He may not know the use of the simplest remedies, but must be doctor for scores, and perhaps hundreds of people. The writer had this to go through, and some of his earlier patients still live to tell how much quicker they might have recovered if the teacher had not treated them.

On one occasion a boy came for medicine. He looked very thin and weak. He wanted medicine for fever and diarrhœa. The usual questions were asked as to frequency of attacks, etc. When the medicine had been prepared the missionary said: "You take one dose now, and another when you retire——" when the boy spoke up, "Oh, no,—it is not for me, it's for mother."

A pupil in the school had frequent fits. The Buddhist priest said that an evil spirit had taken up his abode in the boy. His people came to me, saying that the priest had tried to cast out the evil spirit, but had failed. "Bring him to me," I said, "I will cast the spirit out." He came, swallowed a strong vermifuge, and a dose of castor oil, putting an end to his demoniacal antics.

One of the saddest times in the missionary's life is when he must lay down his work, and take an imperatively needed change in the home-land. That it will be no small loss to himself,—in the inevitable sacrifice of household effects,—is the least of his anxieties. But even in this experience he will find a silver lining to his cloud, as he turns it over. A fellow-worker once unwittingly helped us to a hearty laugh,—just when we were most needing such a reaction.

Boxes had been packed, and were being duly labelled for the home voyage. One piece, to be stowed in the hold of the steamer, had just been marked with black paint. Our friend sat down on this box during his brief call, none of us thinking of the fresh label. As he turned to go we saw plainly stamped in reverse order across his white duck pants—"not wanted."

XII

OBSTACLES

To many minds there is great fascination in the thought of self-sacrifice. Separation from native land and loved ones, to spend one's life in a strange land, among uncivilized people savours of renunciation more than human. The high plane of spirituality, already attained, would be easily perpetuated.

Cut off from everything that had stood ready to prey upon one's weaknesses, those weaknesses would no longer have to be guarded against.

In a life devoted to ministering spiritual things to people who have as yet no spiritual conceptions there would be reflex blessings furnishing all the spiritual help one would need. In short, the missionary is looked upon as belonging to a peculiar order of beings, almost supernatural, dwelling in a sort of seventh heaven of immunity from difficulties against which the ordinary soul must contend.

In calling attention to certain hindrances, it is to guard against romantic notions. The depressing influence of life among a heathen people hangs over one like a cloud.

The natives are so sodden in vice, so wedded to their idols, so prejudiced against all foreign religions, so dull of head and slow of heart to understand and believe. At times it may seem to be all sowing and no reaping,—enough to dishearten the most faithful worker.

To "sit in the shade of a palm-tree, and break the bread of life to hands eagerly outstretched to receive it"—is not an every-day experience.

Sunday by Sunday the native Christians assemble in the chapel for worship. The new missionary joins them. Here he will not be distressed by the degradation of the heathen without. His heart will be glad as he sees these people, rescued from idolatry, worshipping the true God. He cannot understand what is said, but he can join in silent prayer. It is intensely interesting, for a few Sundays. But after a time these services, in which he is utterly unable to take other than a silent part, will be found inadequate to meet his spiritual need.

It will be two years or more, before the missionary can join in all parts of their worship. During this time he will often remember with deep longing the privilege of his own church in the far away home-land. In fact, worship with people of another race and tongue never quite meets one's spiritual requirements. Constant outflow, without corresponding inflow will run any pool dry. Then he will find himself so overwhelmed with work, perplexed by financial cares, hindered by innumerable interruptions that it will seem almost impossible to find time to put forth special effort by reading, meditation, and prayer, for the maintenance and upbuilding of his own spiritual life.

One's very zeal for the kingdom of Christ may dwarf one's fellowship with Christ. No matter how sound in theory, loyal in spirit, or vigorous in action, there will come periods of reaction, though not of discouragement. "Tired in, not of the work." The discouraged missionary is yet to be found. "He shall not fail, nor be discouraged—till He has set judgment in the earth." Often enough to keep him keyed up to his work he will be blessed with the privilege of witnessing that which never loses its fascinating interest,—the wonderful transformation of human souls, by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Other matters however interesting, are but side-lights; other experiences, however trying, are soon forgotten in the joy of seeing, and in a measure being instrumental in the advancement of Christ's kingdom.

With a heart warm with love for Christ; warm with love for souls; full of zeal for soul winning; the missionary is safe. But all these passions he must bring with him, rather than depending upon their being developed in and by service in a foreign land.

Dr. Judson, after nineteen years in Burma, writing to a foreign missionary association of young men said: "Beware of the greater reaction which will take place after you have acquired the language, and become fatigued and worn out with preaching the gospel to a disobedient and gainsaying people. You will sometimes long for a quiet retreat, where you can find a respite from the tug of toiling at native work,—the incessant, intolerable friction of the missionary grindstone. And Satan will sympathize with you in this matter, and he will present some chapel of ease, in which to officiate in your native tongue, some government situation, some professorship or editorship, some literary or scientific pursuit, some supernumerary translation, or, at some system of schools; anything, in a word, that will help you, without much surrender of character, to slip out of real missionary work.

"Such a temptation will form the crisis of your disease. If your spiritual constitution can sustain it, you recover; if not, you die."

Missionary views have undergone some change since Judson's time,—for instance,—"some system of schools" has come to be regarded as a necessary and fruitful part of missionary work. Moreover, instead of furnishing sweet release from the "friction of the missionary grindstone," in the school its rubs are hardest. The great temptation now is to abandon school work, to engage in "direct evangelistic work" exclusively.

But the principal remains the same. Talk about the hardships of pioneering; pioneering is a picnic as compared with the year-in-and-year-out routine of school work. In boarding-schools there is added to the all-day work the all-night anxiety concerning the moral welfare of the pupils. Sick or well, strong or weak and weary, the work is there, and must be accomplished. The dormitories are full of boys and girls, and constant care is the price of discipline.

Nearly every day some are on the sick list, and must be visited, and remedies administered under the missionary's own eye. In serious cases the missionary becomes the watcher. I have in mind an instance when the cholera broke out in a neighbouring mission school. The lady in charge of the school took several girls into her own house, nursed them day and night, in addition to her regular work, and brought them safely through the crisis. But at what a cost. A few days later a company of sorrow-stricken missionaries were gathered around her grave, with difficulty restraining their emotion to conduct the burial service.

A beloved sister had fallen, as truly a martyr as ever gave a life to the Master's service.

The climate of Burma is peculiarly trying.

Arriving in November, as most all newcomers do, everything is seen at its best. The rainy season has passed, leaving a placid smile on the face of nature. The nights are cool. Friends will see that the newcomer keeps in the shade from eleven o'clock in the morning until five in the afternoon,—for a tropical sun can be depended on to do his duty at that time of day, the year round. As the season advances the nights become cooler, and towards morning a chilling fog sets in.

The preceding afternoon having been hot, one retires in a perspiration, every pore open, finally dropping off to sleep—without any covering, save his pajamas. With the coming of the fog there is a sudden drop in temperature, and one is fortunate if he does not wake up in a chill, and have the doctor for his first morning caller.

Persons with weak lungs find this the most trying season of the year. But this is the "cold season," and the time when missionary work out in the district must be vigorously pressed. Away through the Karen, Shan, Chin, and Kachin hills, missionaries push their way. In the plains other missionaries are doing their best to reach as many villages as possible before the "hot season" sets in. Work which ought to close early in March, if the missionary's health is considered, is often continued until April. But this is done at the expense of health, and shortens one's term of service. At least one month of the hot season must be spent at some mountain resort to escape the heat, secure needed rest, or for neglected literary work, if strength permits. It is not in the power of flesh to work on twelve months in the year, in the heated plains, without sacrificing strength that might be more wisely conserved.

After a serious illness, I spent a few weeks alone in a mountain camp, during my last hot season in Burma. Several great vultures kept me company by roosting in a tree close by, every night for a week.

My rapid improvement did not furnish an encouraging prospect, and they left. The fact that they had occupied the tree before I came to occupy the camp, did not make their presence much less suggestive.

By the middle of May the "Southwest monsoon" sets in. Then for five months it is rain, rain, rain. But though enough rain falls to inundate a country less amply provided with natural drainage, the awful heat continues. Clouds shut out the sun much of the time, but the steamy heat is exceedingly enervating. Clothing and bedding are clammy from the excessive dampness. Shoes taken off at night are mouldy in the morning. The unavoidable ruin of shelves of fresh new books from the home-land is enough to break one's heart, unless he has grace to take joyfully the spoiling of his goods. But as a merciful provision against allowing the mind to dwell on such misfortunes, the "prickly heat" (lichen tropicus) with which one's body is covered, will demand frequent attention. The rainfall varies in different parts of the country.

In Maulmain and Sandoway the annual rainfall is about two hundred and fifty inches. In Rangoon the precipitation is about two thirds of that amount. Mandalay is in the dry belt where the rainfall is very light, and irrigation is resorted to for cultivation. But still farther north, at Bhamo, the rainfall is heavy.

The every-day display of wild beasts, reptiles, and insect life is rather disappointing to the newcomer.