The year 1879 opened auspiciously. In March a little variety was introduced into our secluded life by an official visit to Chiengmai of Major Street, the British Commissioner at Maulmein. He and his party arrived quite unexpectedly, spent a week in the city, and attended an English service at the mission on Sunday. We met them a number of times, both socially and at official dinners. They strengthened the position of the Commissioner, and did us all good. But at that time we were anxiously awaiting another arrival, in which we were more intimately concerned. Mr. Wilson, who had been for two and a half years absent on furlough, was daily expected, and with him were our long-looked-for teachers for the Girls’ School.

The party was to arrive on April 9th. To please the three children and myself, on the afternoon of the 8th we four started down the river in a small boat to meet and welcome them. But the river was low, and we had not yet reached them when darkness came on and we were obliged to seek moorings. When, at last, we got ashore, we learned to our great joy that the mission boats were moored only a few hundred yards below, in the same bend of the river. We all walked down in the moonlight, and presently spied their lights close at hand. The young ladies had retired to read, but not to sleep. The meeting by moonlight at the river’s brink was quite romantic. We talked till ten o’clock, though Mr. Wilson was so hoarse that he could scarcely speak. At daybreak our fleet was under way. We had a jolly breakfast together on board—our visitors at their little table, and we on the deck. We then visited hard again until noon; but it was two o’clock before we caught sight of the mission premises, with the native Christians all waiting to greet the arrivals, old and new.

The High Commissioner, a few days later, gave a dinner to the mission, saying in the note of invitation that it was in honour of the young ladies, for the boldness and piety that enabled them to leave their fathers and mothers, and come so far to teach his people. When notified of their arrival, the Princess sent down carriages and had us all up to call on her. She was delighted to welcome the young ladies, and was interested in the school.

The Siamese and the Lāo tongues are two closely related branches of the same linguistic stock. The idiom and the great body of common words are nearly the same in the two, differing, where they do differ, chiefly in accent and intonation. Siamese is, of course, the speech of the ruling race throughout the Siamese kingdom; and even at the time of which we are speaking it was easy to foresee that the local dialect of its northern provinces must eventually give way before it, especially for all official and literary purposes. The chief obstacle in the way of a speedy victory for the Siamese has been the fact that the Lāo is written in a wholly different character. Were the two alike in this respect, there is no doubt that the standard form of speech would take the place of the dialectal almost without notice.

Of necessity all teaching so far attempted had been in the Siamese. There was not a schoolbook in the Lāo character save the spelling tables. When these had been mastered, there was no reading-book in Lāo that could be put into the hands of the pupils; nor was there prospect of any such being printed for years to come. On the other hand, in the Siamese character there was a considerable Christian literature in print, both religious and general, already available for purposes of education. Our pupils, moreover, had all been girls; and almost no Lāo women at that time could read writing in any character. It was, therefore, not only much simpler, but quite as well for them on other accounts, to learn the Siamese character from the start.

Now, however, when we were arrived at the establishment of regular schools with a permanent organization and policy, the question could no longer be postponed, In which language shall instruction be given? It was not an easy question to decide. With regard to it there was difference of opinion among the missionaries, both old and new. On the one hand, it was urged, that since ours was a Lāo mission, the Lāo should, of course, be the language of the schools. On the other hand were pointed out the greater scope and availability of the Siamese, its assured supremacy, and the dwindling future of the Lāo throughout the territory of Siam. The matter at last was compromised by continuing the Siamese in the Girls’ School, and adopting the Lāo for the boys.

Meantime it was desirable to have some portions of the Scriptures in the Lāo character; and, to accomplish this, the first requisite was a font of Lāo type. To this end, on my first furlough in 1873, I went from North Carolina to New York, and not only spent some time, but was at some personal expense, in the effort to secure such a font. The American Bible Society voted a liberal sum for the purpose. But there turned out to be some mechanical difficulties to be overcome in making and using the type, which were beyond my skill to solve. So, lest the attempt should fail in my hands, I gave it up. And having accomplished nothing, I presented no bill of expense either to the Bible Society or to the Board.

There seemed, indeed, to be some fatality attending our efforts in this direction. Mr. Wilson, on the furlough from which he was but now returned, had gone further. He actually succeeded in getting a font of Lāo type. But the whole of it was lost, and never reached the mission.^[11] It was not until Dr. Peoples’ furlough in 1889 that we succeeded in getting our present type. Meanwhile we had used the Siamese Scriptures, with some present disadvantages, indeed, but with some advantages as well. Some of our first Christians were attracted to our religion by their desire to learn Siamese; and the Siamese Bible and catechism were our textbooks. And now, under Siamese rule, knowledge of the Siamese opens the way to promotion in the government service. Siamese alone is taught in the government schools. Young monks are more eager to study Siamese than their own tongue.

But the important thing, after all, was that we had a school actually begun, and that there was teaching in both dialects. It was like a new beginning of our work under conditions more favourable than at the first. For twelve years it had been a hard, and, sometimes, an apparently hopeless struggle. But the history of missions affords many similar instances with even fewer visible results. In twelve years we had gathered forty converts into the church. Some of these were among the most useful we have ever had in the history of the mission. It is hard to estimate rightly the importance of work spent on the foundations of such an enterprise. But now, with that church organized, with the medical work well established, the evangelistic work strengthened, and the initial school, begun long before by Mrs. McGilvary, placed on a permanent basis, we could write in large letters on our altar, “Jehovah-Nissi”—Jehovah our banner.

In the early part of this year, 1879, twelve more persons were gathered into the church. One of them was Pā Sêng Bun, the poor woman accused of witchcraft, who, with so much difficulty, was saved from her persecutors. Another was Mûn C., who was a daily visitor when we were here on our first tour of exploration. And another was our own dear little Margaret. Somewhat later there came to our notice one of the most interesting of all the incidents in the chequered history of our mission. One morning, on returning from my work in the city, I was told that a man had been waiting to see me, and was then talking to Nān Inta. Stepping down to the house, where a number of persons had collected, I saw a handsome man of medium height, but of striking figure, larger and more portly than is usual among the Lāo, and thirty-three years old, as I learned.

Nān Tā, for that was the stranger’s name, said that not long after our first arrival in Chiengmai, while he was yet a monk in the king’s monastery, he had visited me, and was struck with those points in the teachings of Christianity which differentiate it from Buddhism. He received a copy of the Gospel of Matthew in Siamese, learned a few verses, and took the book home with him to the monastery. Afterwards he visited me occasionally to take a few further lessons in it. He was a protégé of Prince Kāwilōrot, who paid the expenses of his entering the monastic order. He thus became the Prince’s “Luk kêo”^[12] (jewel-son), in effect his adopted son. Not long after this he left the priesthood, married, and settled out in the country. But he paid us a few visits from time to time, always, as he said, to talk on religion and to study Siamese.

When the order for the murder of the Christians was given, a monk who was a friend of his met him in the streets, and asked whether he knew that his house was to be burned over his head, explaining that the Prince had nourished him as a son, and now he had apostatized and joined the foreign religion. Advising him to consider well and quickly, the priest hurried on. So it had become known in the palace that he was visiting us and studying the Jesus-religion. There was no time to be lost, not even to bid good-bye to his young wife. On that eventful Saturday afternoon, just before the flight of our servants, he stopped at our door; but seeing no one, he hastened on. On Sunday he secreted himself in a deserted monastery near the mountains. Next day he fell in with a company of traders, going to Chieng Rāi, six days’ journey to the north, and travelled with them without making known what his errand was. At Chieng Rāi he learned that the Christians were put to death the day after he left. He was still within the Lāo realm, and might be arrested. He made his way, therefore, to Keng Tung, in Burmese territory, ten or fifteen days’ journey still further to the north.

After remaining there some three years, he returned to Chieng Rāi, where he heard of the death of Kāwilōrot and the accession of Prince Intanon. Still in fear, he passed through the towns to the east of Chiengmai, venturing even as near as Lakawn. Then crossing the Mê Ping valley to the south of Chiengmai, he went beyond the Salwin into Burma, stopping awhile among the Red Karens, and then going on to Maulmein. Seeing there a foreigner’s house, he enquired if anything was known concerning the missionaries in Zimme (Chiengmai). Nothing was known of them. Returning again to Siamese territory, he went to Rahêng, thinking that he would go on to Bangkok. There, however, he was told that the missionaries had gone back to the United States—information based, no doubt, on our departure on furlough.

During his long wanderings he had made friends as he could, and to support himself had sometimes turned peddler. In the haste of his flight from home he had taken nothing with him except his copy of the Gospel of Matthew in Siamese. He could not read it well, but he kept it as a kind of talisman, till it was now well worn. He had learned to pray daily. He never dared to return till he heard of the Edict of Toleration. He regarded it as a special providence that his wife, strange to say, had not married again. The child born after his flight he found grown to be a fine girl nine years old. He was delighted to find the missionaries again.

It was a thrilling story. This man did not have to become a Christian—he was one already. His first desire was to understand all that there was in his Gospel of Matthew. It was evident that he had been spared and kept for some wise purpose. And so it proved. Since I needed a teacher, and since he was a fine Buddhist scholar, I employed him as teacher, so that I might have him near me in order to teach him. He was an apt pupil, making rapid progress in knowledge, and growing in grace. His romantic history interested and attracted others. As a church member, as a ruling elder, and afterwards as an ordained minister, he was a power in the church till the day when he was taken up. Thousands heard the Gospel from his lips, and many were drawn by his words and by his life into the fold of Christ.

How wonderful are God’s ways in leading His people! Doubtless the defection of this man was one of the things which alarmed Kāwilōrot. It may even have hastened the fate of the martyrs. But no doubt the Lord chose a wonderful way of saving to His church this most useful minister of the Gospel.

After long-continued weakness on the part of Mrs. McGilvary, an acute attack of pneumonia made a longer stay in the country impossible. My daughter Cornelia was taken ill at the same time. So, with but little preparation, on December 28th, 1879, both mother and daughter were carried in chairs to the boat, and we hastened out of the country. Stopping in Bangkok only a few days, we embarked for Hongkong. We met the China Sea in its worst mood. For three days and nights we did not see the captain’s face; neither did he see sun, moon, or stars in that most dangerous tract of the sea. The skylight was fastened down, for the waves swept the vessel from stem to stern. We were good sailors; but we could not but pity the one hundred and twenty Chinese steerage passengers, allowed on deck only a few moments twice a day for a breath of air, after which they had almost to be forced back into their hole again. There was withal just enough of the spice of danger to make the sight of Victoria Peak at last doubly welcome.

By this time my family were all so much improved by the journey that there was question whether I should proceed with them, or should return to Chiengmai for another year’s work. It was evident that, in order to regain her strength, Mrs. McGilvary would require a longer stay in the United States than one year. I could neither spare the time for so long a furlough for myself, nor could I expect the Board to grant it. The question was not an easy one; but we decided at last that my wife and children should continue their journey to the United States, and that I should return to Chiengmai alone.

During my few days’ stay in Bangkok, through the kindness of our Consul, I had an audience with His Majesty the King. I desired to express to him in person my thanks for the Edict of Toleration. After some remarks addressed to the other gentlemen present, the King asked me if I were not, during the previous month, the bearer of despatches from his Commissioner in the North—showing that he did not overlook small matters, as a king might be expected to do. He enquired how I liked the Commissioner, whether I preached in Siamese or in Lāo, how many converts we had, etc., etc. It was a very pleasant interview.

As I ascended the river, it became plain that the water was too low to permit the latter stage of the trip to be made in my large boat. At Chiengmai I should find a house, but not a home. Before I could reach it, the touring season would be nearly over. The thought of stopping a season for work at Rahêng struck me favourably. The more I considered it, the more attractive it became. To be sure, I had not secured the sanction of the mission to that particular enterprise; but I had always been allowed to choose my own touring ground. An officer, Sên Utamā, offered me a site for a bamboo house gratis; and before I had announced my final decision, he and others began to cut bamboo on it to build the house. I had asked for guidance, and the question seemed to settle itself.

I cannot dwell on the interesting six months of the year 1880 spent there. Sên Utamā was interested from the first. By affliction he had been wonderfully prepared for, and seemed to be waiting for, the very consolation that the Gospel offered him. An ex-tax-collector, a Chinese of some influence, was in the same state of mind, and soon joined the other as an enquirer. My student, Noi Intachak, entered heartily into the work. Soon, with my cook and boy, we had the nucleus of quite an interesting congregation who attended worship twice a day. It was a delight to teach them.

The case of the Chinese was deeply interesting. He believed the Gospel plan of salvation, and was deeply anxious to be saved from his sin and its punishment. But there was one serious obstacle in the way of his making an open profession—he had two wives. The real wife—the one he had formally married—was childless. The one he had bought was younger, and had two lovable little children, both girls. I recall almost with tears the burning questionings we had over that situation. He seemed willing to make any self-sacrifice that duty required. But what was duty? Should he divorce one of them? If so, which one? “Of course, he must keep the real one,” you will say. But what of the young mother and the helpless babes? The very mention of their being turned adrift, even with a dower, had produced a scene in the family. The poor woman felt quite unable to care for the children alone. The children were his children. It might easily have been the ruin both of mother and babes to put her away. My heart was not hard enough to advise that. Surely the man had not cut himself off from the hope of salvation by his past—by an error or sin of ignorance. The conditions of church-membership are faith and repentance. The sacraments of the church are baptism and the Lord’s Supper. Shall we offer a man the pardon of his sin without its sacramental seals?—the glorious hope of endless fellowship in heaven, but not the communion of saints on earth? A precisely parallel case I had met before in the person of a native doctor at Mûang Awn. “What then,” the reader will ask, “did you do?” Why, in each case I just did nothing. I followed the letter of the law, and baptized neither one. But “the letter killeth; the spirit maketh alive.”

In due time Sên Utamā and a nephew of the Chinese were baptized. An interesting tour was made up the river. But the station in Chiengmai was feeling the pressure of the growing work. In July, 1880, the church of Bethlehem was organized, and there were promising openings in other districts. It was evident that the Board was not in a condition to consider a permanent station in Rahêng. It would have been an interesting field for permanent occupation; but for temporary work, I had been there as long a time as we could afford to spend in one place.

Just then Prayā Sīhanāt—the officer from Lakawn who, two years before, had greeted me with “Ephphatha”—invited me to return with him. His ears were not opened, but his heart was. He had taught the Christian faith to his wife and children and a few others, and among these was a fellow ex-officer. He wished with them to receive further and fuller instruction, and to be taken into the fellowship of the church. Without waiting to ascertain whether I could go, he was come with a boat to bring me. This seemed to me the guiding hand of providence, and I followed it.

Since a single boat cannot ascend the rapids without the help of another boat’s crew, we made arrangements to join forces with another party, and make the trip together. The night before we were to start, the river, which had been steadily rising, became a flood so strong that my host dared not face it in his small craft. Our companions, however, did not wait for us, but went on as they had planned. We waited ten days for another party, as well as for the river to go down. Imagine my sensations, then, when, presently, we learned that the captain and owner of the principal boat in the flotilla with which we had planned to make the trip, was shot and killed, and his boat was plundered! A band of dacoits secreted themselves behind a cluster of trees where the channel runs close to the bank, shot the steersman at his oar, and then had the boat at their mercy. Since all foreigners are supposed to carry money, the attack may well have been intended for me. Earlier in that same year, while returning alone to Rahêng, I came near being entrapped by a similar band.

The visit to Lakawn was interesting and profitable. Ten days were spent with the new converts. While my friend, the Prayā, had been busy, the devil had not been idle. One of the princes had threatened to have one of his head men flogged if he joined the Christians. But before we left, a church was organized, with Prayā Sīhanāt as elder.

From Lakawn I took elephants to Chiengmai, and spent the last Sunday of my trip with Nān Inta and the newly organized church of Bethlehem, named after Mr. Wilson’s old church in Pennsylvania. Nān Inta was waiting for me where the road to his village turned off from the main route. On Christmas day following this, Mr. Wilson, Dr. Cheek, and Miss Cole organized yet another church at Mê Dawk Dêng, where Nān Suwan had been doing faithful work. In both these cases the persecution for supposed witchcraft had furnished a good nucleus for the church, which thereafter the Edict of Toleration protected from expulsion.

All the departments of our work, medical, educational, evangelistic, were prospering. Nān Tā, the long-time wanderer, was becoming a power second only to Nān Inta, and destined ultimately to surpass him. Like him, he was a man of fine address and bearing, and a good Buddhist scholar; but he was much younger. Being, moreover, the son of a Prayā—the highest grade of Lāo officers—he had an influence with the nobility such as no other of our Christians had. In the church he began to show a capacity and power such as probably no other person has exercised.

Meanwhile Mr. Wilson was working on plans for a building for the Girls’ High School. Already the school numbered forty-two pupils, but with no place in which to teach them save the teacher’s house. The season had been very hard on Miss Campbell’s health. She was very young, and had come direct to Chiengmai from the seminary without any period of rest, and with a constitution by no means robust. The mission voted her a trip to Bangkok for rest. Little did we think when we bade her good-bye that we should see her face no more.

Financially for me the year had been the hardest in my life. With all the economy we could use—and we did not spend a useless penny—it seemed impossible for me to keep my family going. When we left Chiengmai we had overdrawn our salary, and the amount had to be made up that year. This condition was one of the straws that helped to determine me to stop over in Rahêng. I could live more cheaply there; in fact, could hardly spend money there if I wished to. In only one matter had I been greatly disappointed in Rahêng; I hoped to be in somewhat closer communication with my family, about whom I still felt some anxiety. I was, indeed, nearer them in space, but it proved much further in time. The largest mail of the year passed on up to Chiengmai, and was sent back, reaching Rahêng just after I had left the place. It finally reached me in Chiengmai on the last day of the year 1880!