So much for the dark and sad side; now for a word about the sunny and cheerful side of the work. One Sabbath morning, while examining the members of the church of Ambòhitràzo, an old man came forward who, in answer to my questions, told me that he could not answer them according to the catechism; for he had not learned them, as he could not read. He was an old man, he said, and it was only within the last few years that he had begun to pay any attention to religion, or even to think of preparing for a future life. He said he had not much head knowledge about religion; but he had heart love for the Lord Jesus, and was trusting Him for salvation, and that I must not judge his heart by his head knowledge. He had returned only the night before from the war in the south of the island. He had gone to the war all alone, he said, and he had asked God that his ‘head might be covered in the day of battle’—that he might not fall, but be allowed to return to his native village; and, he added, ‘God has answered my prayer; for there was no battle, and I have been brought safely back to my native village and my own church.’

I need hardly say how much good it did one to meet with such a fine old man, amid much that was not very cheering. Although he could not answer the simple questions of the catechumen’s catechism, as they were therein arranged, he was far from being destitute of Bible knowledge or of the way of salvation. To all primitive and simple-minded peoples religion is always a most intensely real thing. As they advance we meet with traditional beliefs nominally accepted by all, but practically regarded by no one. Far too often what in one generation is a living faith becomes in later generations a mere dead formula, part of the religion learned by rote with which living faith has to do battle.

During one of my visits to the churches in the northern portion of the district, while examining the members of the church at Antsàmpandràno, a blind girl came forward. Of course as she could not read, she could not answer the questions of the catechism; but she had been well instructed in general Bible knowledge, and answered all the questions I put to her very well indeed. During the conversation she said she could not see Jesus Christ with the eyes of her body, but she could and did see Him with the eyes of her soul. She seemed to be a sort of ‘pillar’ in that small village church, as she was the leader of the singers, and kept them well in hand—a good thing, as we found in Madagascar. There, as here, ‘the sons and daughters of harmony were often the children of discord.’

She had been instructed in divine things by a relative, who was a godly woman, baptized and received into fellowship in 1832 by Andriamònana, a remarkable man from all I could learn about him—a sort of ‘apostle of the north.’ For he not only roused the people to think of eternal things, but kept the flame of faith burning in the souls of many hidden ones during the ‘killing times.’ The devoted man was hunted like a wild beast, had to hide here and there in the dens and caves of Vònizòngo, and change his name several times to escape detection by the queen’s spies. Caught at last, he was sent in chains to the east coast, where he died of fever.

On the Sabbath morning, while taking a turn through the village, I came upon the old church. On entering the blind girl came out, and I think I had disturbed her at private prayer. It was evidently still a place of prayer, where some were wont to gather.

Native agents are the hope of the mission field: European missionaries can seldom do more than superintend the work. They officer the army; the rank and file of the workers must be natives. The most important thing is to be sure of your agents. ‘The same commit to faithful men, who shall be able to teach others also.’ There were a few such at Fìhàonana, who went out on the Sabbaths to preach in the outlying villages. They generally took journeys of from five to ten and even twenty miles. They were not paid for their work, which was mainly a labour of love; but a ‘present’ of one shilling a month ‘to buy salt’ was given them. Salt was very costly in those days, and the polite way of making a small present was to give something to buy salt. Generally speaking the present went, not to buy salt, but to pay for books, a thing I encouraged. Razàka had a present of one shilling a week, for he did so much work for me, and helped in so many ways that I hardly know how I could have got on without him. He was my true yokefellow.

Five young men were under special training, preparing them for the institution at the capital for the training of native agents. But, after all my toil and trouble, none of them went. Three of them passed the entrance examination, but after doing so, two were sent with the army to the south, and the third would not consent to go to the capital under our conditions.

The war in the south of the island during 1873, and the visit of the queen to the Bètsilèo country, greatly affected our churches and schools, so many having to go to the war or to follow Her Majesty. At one village no teacher could be found for the school, and the petty chief came forward and offered his services until a better could be found.

After the manse was built I felt freer to fling myself into district work of all kinds—preaching, teaching, doctoring, Bible and bookselling work, itinerating, and the work of those glorious Bible-classes, in which some of the happiest hours of my life were spent. A Bible-class generally lasted about two, but often three hours, until I would say: ‘I must stop, for I am tired talking to you.’ ‘Ah, sir,’ they would say, ‘you must be; but we are very thirsty, and have come a long way for a drink, and now we are at the well we want a good drink before we return.’ Some of them had come twenty miles. I found after a time that I was going at too high pressure, had a return of the enemy of student days, and had to slow down for a time, which was hard with so much to be done.

From about a month after we settled at Fìhàonana my wife had sewing-classes for the women, to which many of the girls came. It was not, however, until we got into the manse, and had a small schoolroom built near it, that systematic teaching for the girls was begun. A Scotch merchant friend sent my wife £5 to help her with her work among the women and girls, and with this I built her the schoolroom. Having secured the services of a Malagasy teacher, she was able to have a fairly good school for the girls five days a week, with a sewing-class twice a week for them, and once a week in the manse for the mothers. To provide needles, thread, thimbles, and material for three sewing-classes a week soon became rather a serious matter. Another old merchant friend got us a small bale of patches and remnants of prints, calicoes, tartans, tweeds and flannels, which was of immense service to us. He sent out such a bale every year for six years. With the contents we got patchwork or parti-coloured tunics, shirts and dresses made, also vests of tweed, tartan and flannel for the cold season.

When we first settled at Fìhàonana the small boys and girls wore no clothing. The bigger boys had a loincloth, and the girls a tunic. Our bale of remnants soon made a change. Of course all the garments were very much of the style of ‘Joseph’s coat,’ but that was rather a recommendation than otherwise. We did not give any of the garments away for nothing, but sold them at from twopence to two shillings each, and the money went to help to pay the salary of the Malagasy teacher. We could always sell ten times as much as we had, in fact the garments were often bespoken weeks before they were ready.

This teaching the women and girls to sew and make garments changed the tune of the remarks formerly made about them, and instead of the old. ‘She’s only a girl!’ and Ambin-jàvatra hiàny ny vèhivàvy, ‘Women are only trifles’: it was ‘Yes, the girls are of some use’; ‘The women are worth their salt’—which was a step in the right direction. Some of the work done by the Malagasy girls we brought home with us, and it astonished our friends very much indeed.

Scant justice would be done to the work of missions, if no account were taken of the work done by the wives of the missionaries. Their work is seldom reported, and is not always reportable, but it has to be done all the same. In one sense their work is never done, for they are always at it, helping in a score of unnumbered and unsentimental ways. They visit the schools, conduct the sewing-classes, look after the Bible women, and teach the female Bible-classes. They look after the women of the churches—old folk, young folk, well folk, feeble folk, and all sorts of folk who need bits of help, and odds and ends of guidance, good advice, and wise suggestion. Besides that which cometh upon them daily—the care of their households, their small families, and the attention native servants all require.

They have to make the most of the preparations for their husbands when they go off on itinerating tours—see to his cooking-utensils, stores, stretcher, bedding, &c. Some of them would starve by the way if their good wives did not look after them. If there are any social amenities to be observed in order to good standing in the community, as there are sometimes, the wives have to see to them, or they will not be done. They have to see that their husbands are not barbarized while about their work. Some of the husbands would go round with sleeves out at the elbows, or in their cook’s white drill coat, which the washerman had by mistake put along with the missionary’s, or in shoes careened over on one side and tied with twine, if their wives did not look after them. They would get to taking their breakfast in the pantry, or on their desks, or even go off into the country without breakfast, if left to themselves.

Every time they return from an itinerating tour their wives have to put them through their facings, make them presentable to society, and not a discredit to those that sent them out. Nor is this all that missionaries’ wives have to do and see after. They have to be the general supplementers in most mission fields of all manner of minor unfinished items in the round of missionary life.

In some fields the wives have to mix medicines, spread plasters, give out doses of ‘pain-killer,’ quinine, castor oil, warn the children against green fruit and colic, put on patches, sew on buttons, deal out bits of thread and needles, doctor the children, ask the children how their mothers are, and the mothers how the children are, keep count of the baptizing gowns, look after the preparations for the Communion Service, keep the desk supplied with pens, ink, paper and postage stamps. And so on, and so on, with twenty other things of no account in making up a ‘report,’ but all of which are most valuable items of solid missionary usefulness, and go a very long way in making the work of their husbands a success or a failure.

There are many gifted, cultured, gracious women, whose devotion to the cause of foreign missions is soul-refreshing to see or to read about. But there are also others, equally gracious women, although not equally gifted and cultured, whose labours, sacrifices, and influence are and have been such as even their more gifted and cultured sisters have never come near—gentle, sweet-tempered, tender-hearted, unobtrusive women who, seldom seen on platforms and never in the pulpit, and little heard of even in missionary circles, are not much reckoned among the workers and forces making for righteousness—and yet the influence, example and work of such are among the most powerful factors in the mission field. For not only do they reign as queens in their own homes—which are always models of what such ought to be in cleanliness, comfort and hospitality (‘Marys in the House of God, Marthas in their own’)—but also in the huts and homes of the natives, because they reign in the hearts of the native women, who adore them, and look up to them as their highest example of all that is Christian, womanly and motherly.

With limited gifts and but little culture—as those words are generally understood—they are greatly gifted in tact, mother-wit and sanctified common sense, and rich in that heart-culture which counts for so much in all Christian work, but especially in foreign mission work. Like their prototype, Mary of old, they do what they can, and their influence and example, like the odour of her ointment, are felt far and near. For they fill their fields of labour with their aroma, penetrating to the most unthought-of places, and permeating all the ways and walks of native and missionary home, social and public life. Such are not only mothers in Israel, sisters in sorrow, and helpers in every season of affliction and time of need, but they are the Marys, Marthas, Dorcases, Priscillas and Phoebes of the mission field, and rare and precious blessings they are to it and to all connected with it.

In those early days there were very few horses, and those not good, while all were very dear. Our pastors, chiefs and other head-men, when they knew I could ride, strongly advised me to buy a horse. There were only a very few men at Fihàonana trained to carry the so-called palanquin with any comfort. Often when I wanted them they were engaged in field or other work for their masters, and could not be had. But the horses were high-priced, unbroken, and riding was exhausting in the rarified air at an altitude of 5,000 feet above sea-level, and hence I was loth to get one. Nor was that all. When on horseback you could not carry an umbrella, and, even in the cold season, without one you were so beaten on the shoulders by the sun’s rays as to feel after a few hours as if you had been belaboured with a stick. Walking was almost an impossibility, and would have been suicidal.

My hand, however, was forced by a strike among my palanquin-bearers. One morning, coming out of the house to go off to a district Bible-class, I found my men with my palanquin waiting for me, but before lifting it they asked where we were going, and on hearing inquired what wages I was to pay, I answered, ‘The usual pay.’ They said they had made up their minds that, unless I promised one shilling a day, they would not carry me. ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘the best thing you can do is to make up your bodies to go home, for I won’t pay you one shilling a day.’ ‘Then, sir,’ they said, ‘we will never carry you.’ ‘Very well,’ I answered, ‘just put up my palanquin,’ which they did, and returned to the village.

I saw them in church on the Sabbath, but they did not come near me for about a month. The churches sent to see if I was ill, or why it was that I was not visiting them, nor coming to conduct Bible-classes. I told them: ‘My bearers have gone stupid, and refuse to carry me unless paid one shilling a day, a sum to which I cannot agree. I cannot walk to visit you, or would gladly do so. I have no horse, although I mean to get one now; but if you will send bearers I shall be delighted to visit you, as I am weary of this inaction, but am helpless until a horse is procured.’

About a month after the refusal to carry me, on entering my study one morning, I heard a knock at the door which led into the lean-to, where patients were seen, and where there was a place for the palanquins and a carpenter’s shop. Upon opening the door, a man was standing with the side of his head on his hand, groaning and looking the very picture of misery. He said he was suffering from toothache, and had been ill all night. I remarked that that was a most painful thing, and inquired what he wanted. He answered that he wanted me to draw his tooth. Telling him to sit down on the doorstep, with his head against the study door—that was the operating chair—I asked him to open his mouth, to see which tooth it was. Getting the proper forceps, I asked him where his shilling was. ‘What shilling?’ he asked in amazement. I said, ‘I charge one shilling for drawing a tooth.’ ‘A shilling for drawing a tooth!’ he gasped. ‘Yes; you could not get it done cheaper, even if you went over to England. If I went it would be much more, but as you are only a poor man I will only charge you a shilling; but turn it out quickly, as I have a deal to do to-day, and have no time to waste in haggling.’

His countenance fell; the man looked the picture of mingled astonishment and misery, while with a deep-drawn sigh—half sob—(almost too much for my gravity) he said: ‘I have no shilling, sir.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘I can’t draw your tooth,’ and with that I put my forceps in my pocket. ‘But how is that, sir?’ he asked, ‘you never charged a shilling for drawing a tooth before.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I never dreamt of doing so; but then, formerly, the bond of union between us was friendship. You carried me, I paid you proper wages; and if you had toothache, and wanted a tooth drawn, I drew it for nothing. If ill, or your wife or children were ill, I did my best for you, and gave you medicines free; but you are dissatisfied with that bond, you wish the bond between us to be a mere matter of money. Well, just as you like. I have no wish to force my friendship upon you, or upon any one else; but if it is to be money on one side, it must be money on the other. It cannot be friendship on one side, and money on the other; it must be friendship right through, or money right through. You have a perfect right to put any price you please upon your services. If you put four shillings a day on them, when I want them I will pay for them; but when you want mine, you must pay for them, and you may find that to be rather expensive.’

A twinge of the toothache taking him at the moment, he twisted his face and seemed to writhe in agony; when able to speak he turned to me and said in the most pathetic tones: ‘Oh, sir, let’s return to friendship—and draw my tooth!’ Whereupon we returned to friendship, and I drew his tooth, having the most profuse thanks for my trouble, after which he went away, looking the picture of relief and happiness.

On his return to the village, he met with some of his fellow bearers, to whom he said: ‘It won’t do to fall out with the white man.’ ‘Why?’ they asked. ‘If he won’t pay us a shilling a day we won’t carry him.’ ‘How will you do,’ he asked, ‘if you happen to have toothache, as I had, and want your tooth drawn?’ ‘We shall go to him,’ they said, ‘and have our teeth drawn.’ ‘But,’ he said, ‘it is a shilling a tooth, if you are not on friendly terms with him, as he only draws the teeth of his friends for nothing.’

Next morning, on my going out into the yard, I found, to my astonishment, my bearers hanging about looking very sheepish. Saluting them, I asked after their health, and how they had been since we parted. One of them plucked up courage to ask when I was going out into the district again. I replied that I could not tell, but as soon as they came to their senses again I would be glad to go. The man said: ‘Please, sir, don’t mention that again!’ upon which I said, ‘Come to-morrow morning, then.’ They came, and we never had any more trouble with them.

When we left on furlough the same men, and a dozen of others, carried my wife, our children, and myself to the coast, some 300 miles away from their own homes! They were among the last with whom I shook hands as I stepped into the boat. They were a lot of fine fellows, who carried me thousands of miles, did many a good day’s work for me, and many a kindness; but they had just gone a little stupid for the time, and needed to be shown their folly, and how their principles cut both ways, and then they came to their senses again.

Once, while I was away up in the capital, my wife slipped and fell from top to bottom of the stairs. She was lifted by the servants, carried upstairs, and laid on her bed. About midnight she felt as if she was about to be ill, and, in her then delicate condition, she feared what the consequences might be if she really took ill while by herself, and so sent to the village to inform Razàka of her state, and ask him to send to the capital to call me home. He sent off two men at midnight for me. When the news reached me in the capital, I called my bearers, told them what had happened, how Madama was, and that we must start off home at once. They said, ‘We can’t reach Fìhàonana to-night, sir, with only eight bearers. ‘Well,’ I answered, ‘get other four, or even other eight; but we must get to Fìhàonana by dark.’ We started with sixteen bearers, ran the whole forty miles, and did the journey in seven hours! Twelve of the bearers broke down, and had to be left at villages on the way, to come on next day, and the four bearers who carried me in were Fìhàonana men. I gave all double pay and a present, and these four an extra present. It was the quickest journey I had ever taken, and yet it was the longest; for I feared what awaited me at the end—possibly a dead wife and child. Through God’s goodness I found her better than she was when she sent for me. She had lain where she had been placed for thirty-two hours, which probably saved her.

We went up to the capital in January, 1874, to attend the meetings of the Imèrina district committee and a missionary conference, held during that month. It was not until the second week of February that we were able to start home again to our own station, and on that journey we had an exciting experience, which might have had a very tragic ending. It was the middle of the rainy season, when the rivers and streams were flooded. This made the journey with young children a trying one; but all went well, until we reached the banks of the Ànjamòka, a small and usually a shallow river, about seven miles from our own home. There had been very heavy rains during the night previous, and we found the river swollen to ten times its ordinary size. The bearers refused to attempt the crossing. They said they would be drowned if they did, as the current was so strong. After waiting on the banks of the river for about an hour discussing the subject, and trying to persuade the men to make the attempt, I felt compelled at last to assume a different tone, and tell them that the river had to be forded.

We had neither stretchers nor bedclothes, and we were not prepared to spend the night, within sight of our own home, on mats on the floor of a filthy Malagasy hut full of vermin. As there was no canoe to be had, there was nothing for it but to ford the river. My firm tone had the desired effect, and the men rose and prepared to cross. Four of the tallest of them took up my wife’s palanquin, with her and the baby, and holding it high over their heads, entered the river. Four of their companions entered the river along with them, two swimming on the lower side of the palanquin, and two on the upper side, holding on to the poles with one hand while they swam with the other to keep the bearers from being carried away by the current. My heart was beating fast as I saw them enter the rushing stream; but it almost stood still when I saw the heads of the bearers disappear in the foaming river. I thought I was to see my wife and child drowned before my eyes. Fortunately my wife could not see what was happening. The brave fellows, when they found how deep the river was, had set their teeth, shut their eyes, and marched right on, having to take two or three steps in the bed of the stream, with their heads under water; but holding the palanquin at the utmost stretch of their arms above their heads. The weight of my wife and baby in the palanquin, and the hold which their four companions had of it, helped to keep them steady; but it was a most heroic feat.

It was with a sense of ineffable relief that I saw in a moment their heads reappear above the water; but it seemed an age. They soon clambered up the opposite bank, and the precious burden was safe. The bearers then gave vent to their pent-up feeling by laughter and shouting, returned for the other two children, their nurse, and then myself.

Having forded the river once, they were quite prepared to do it fifty times if necessary. After we had all been brought safely over, the men started again laughing, dancing, and fairly yelling for joy. ‘What a set of cowards we are,’ they said, ‘if it had not been for the white man, we should never have attempted fording the river.’ I thought within myself, if you only knew it, the said white man would never have asked you to make the attempt, if he had had any idea of the risk that you would have to run. It would have been far wiser, however uncomfortable, to have waited for another hour, or even two, on the banks of the river. However, we reached home just at dark, and had soon forgotten the perils and discomforts of our journey.

As I have already said, the war in the south of the island, and the visit of the queen and court to the Bètsilèo country, greatly affected the attendance at church for a time; but on Her Majesty’s return to the capital the tide turned, and the churches were soon as full as ever. Immoralities also declined; we had fewer scandals and fewer cases of church discipline than we had ever had. A Christian public opinion gradually grew in the district; sin began to hide its head, and people to become ashamed of what they had formerly gloried in. As the result of God’s blessing on our efforts to spread the Gospel, real religion took root in the hearts of our people. Several who had been suspended from church fellowship, under the influence of the Spirit of God professed sincere sorrow for their sin, and showed great anxiety to be received back into the church, and to be numbered again among God’s people.

One man in particular, who had fallen into sin, and that too in spite of all our warnings and advice, was brought to repentance by repeated strokes of affliction, and the death of one dear one after another, and of his companions in sin. For a time he only rebelled more and more beneath the rod, but at last he came to himself and said: ‘Well, it’s no use going on like this; for this is God dealing with me for my sins, and there is nothing to be gained by going on fighting against God, and the white man’s advice.’ He came to us and professed sincere penitence, and was received back into church fellowship, a sadder and a wiser man.

We got out the first edition of the Malagasy Bible, at the cost of one shilling, in 1873; and the whole consignment of 6,000 copies was sold in six weeks, and 10,000 could have been sold, had they been there. There were many most touching incidents connected with the sale of those Bibles; but it would take up too much space to tell more than one.

A man went to one of our missionaries one day, and asked for a Bible on credit, as he was afraid the Bibles would be all gone before he could get a shilling, promising to pay for it the following Friday. My friend said, ‘No, I can’t give credit, bring the shilling and you shall have the Bible.’ The man went away, looking sad; but he returned after a little, bringing a shilling and demanded a Bible. He was asked, ‘Why did you want a Bible on credit, when you had a shilling to buy one?’ ‘I had not a shilling, sir,’ he replied. ‘Where then did you get this shilling?’ he was asked. ‘I went to the market,’ he answered, ‘and sold my garment, and for it I got a shilling!’

Our general Bible-class at Fìhàonana on Sabbath afternoon for old and young, instead of the afternoon service, proved a great success. Of course we had a deal of hymn-singing, for a number of new hymns had been published, set to very lively tunes—hymns and tunes were mostly adaptations from Messrs. Moody and Sankey’s book—and that of itself was a great source of attraction. But we had also Bible reading, exposition, and catechizing, and I believe that much of the more intelligent attention I began to get on the Sabbaths, when I preached at Fìhàonana, was due to the teaching and catechizing of the Sabbath afternoon class.

Our people at Fìhàonana were very excited over the building of our model station church—the Martyr Memorial Church, at the home of the martyrs. The old persecuting queen—Rànavàlona I—made a great mistake for us when she took the Christian converts from Vònizòngo, and made martyrs of them in the capital. If she had only been content to make martyrs of all of them—as she did of some of them—at their own native villages, we should have got the memorial churches for them in Vònizòngo, instead of their being erected in the capital for congregations that had no connexion whatsoever with the martyrs. Some of them were not formed until after the reopening of the mission in 1862. They got these fine memorial churches, built of block granite, without a penny of cost, while the district from which the martyrs came had to get its own as best it could. Still, after a deal of work and effort we got a church built, which was a comfort to the community, an ornament to the countryside, and, above all, worthy of the home of the martyrs. This repaid us for all our toil and sacrifice.

I had some of my local preachers, deacons, and members taught bricklaying, while our manse was being built, so that we might be independent of the bricklayers of the capital for the building of our new church, when we were able to have one. They gladly and generously built the walls for one-fourth of the regular pay for bricklaying, to keep down the cost of building. The congregation at Fìhàonana raised £20, equivalent to £100 to them, while the churches of the district raised £3 2s. 6d., equivalent to £15 12s. 6d., to help us. These may seem small sums, but they were really large for the people to raise at that time. The members and adherents at Fìhàonana made 100,000 bricks for nothing.

We had no forced labour, such as there was at the building of some other station churches, under the sway of the ‘Palace Church Evangelists.’ We had agreed not to ask the old chief to help us, as we knew that it would only mean his calling his clansmen, and setting them and their slaves to making bricks for us. We were determined we should not have that, and so we left all to the voluntary efforts of those really interested in the church. The old chief did not like our way of getting the church built, as it gave him no prominent place in the work, as chief, and he accordingly took umbrage, and stood aside for a time; but when he saw that the work went on without him, he came forward and made offer of his services, and really did a good deal to help us, poor old man. I say ‘poor old man,’ because I felt for him. He was a member of the church, he was so before we knew him; but I fear he was not a member of Christ. Yet he knew the truth, and I believe it often troubled him, and he dared not do the things he had formerly done. He was a son of the first convert to Christianity in Vònizòngo, and hence was a brother of Ràmitràha the martyr. He had been a pupil of the first missionaries, along with Razàka, but had lapsed and drifted.

Our work was interrupted for a time, first, by the protracted committee meetings, and the missionary conference at the capital, from which we did not return until the middle of February, and then, by the serious amount of affliction through which we were called upon to pass. My wife and children were ill together for about three months; she so seriously ill, that she was brought to the brink of the grave; but God in His goodness spared her to her children and me. The anxieties, and the nursing, proved too much for me, weakened as I then was by my attempts to overtake all the work of the two districts, which had been committed to my care, and so, just as they recovered I was laid aside for a time from full work. While unfit for full duty, I dashed off some 800 pages of letters to friends at home, asking for help for the building of our new church, and by that means was able to raise £150!

On our return to our station, I began regular classes for pastors and local preachers at four centres—two in the northern portion of the district, and two in the southern. To these I went once a fortnight, going to one north and one south every week. My wife was able to go with me to these centres, and have sewing-classes with the women and girls. Travelling as I now did on horseback, she was able to have my former bearers. At all the four centres she had large and most interesting classes, of about fifty women and girls. She had also her sewing-class at Fìhàonana twice a week. We found, however, that we had in our zeal attempted too much. My wife suffered for it afterwards. A journey of twelve miles twice a week under a tropical sun—trying even in the cold season—in addition to domestic duties, and all the other work of the week at a mission station, proved too much for her, and no wonder.

Of the state of the village schools (1873–1875) little can be said, and the less the better. Poor at best, they had been allowed to drift to ruin, and all my former toil and trouble over them seemed wasted. And yet there were signs of a growing interest in elementary education on the part of the people, which had only to be laid hold of, and directed into proper channels, to be made serviceable. Schools would not rise of themselves in Madagascar, any more than anywhere else. That they could be raised and kept up was afterwards proved. I had the honour and satisfaction—no small satisfaction to me—of doing what had never before been done, and has never been done since, namely, of raising forty-four new schools during seven months, and gathering two thousand four hundred children into them! It was certainly about the hardest seven months’ work I have ever done, and perhaps I know what hard work means; but it was well worth doing. These schools were kept up for five years, until we were driven home on furlough, after being again and again prostrated by malarial fever. Instead of some hundred and fifty, old and young, whom we found able to read the Word of God, when we settled in the district in 1871, we left three thousand able to do so, and in possession of the Book—no bad ten years’ work of itself, even if we had done nothing else.

While detained in the capital through the illness of my wife and children in 1874, I had a hint from a friend at court that the queen was about to issue a proclamation with regard to education, to the effect that all children must attend some school. And so, as soon after our return to our station as I could, I set to work to get the children of the district gathered into schools connected with our village churches. It was the dry season, and I went galloping all over my district, visiting the churches, and getting them roused to take action along with me. I attended the local markets and fairs, where I appealed to the people to send their children to school. I called on the chiefs, petty chiefs, and head men to come to my help in the interests of the education of the rising generation. I got them, the pastors, and the local preachers formed into village school-boards on a small scale, and made them responsible for the attendance of the children of their neighbourhood at school. Three, four, and even five days a week for some seven months I devoted to this, with the result already mentioned.

It was very exhausting work, and I often came home at night so tired that I could hardly come off my horse. My wife and children would be waiting for my return from these expeditions, and she often told me, with tears in her eyes, that I was killing myself. This work was worth much, however, and had to be done then, if done at all, and the children were to be saved. When the royal proclamation came out, I had the names of two thousand four hundred children in the schools under my care ready to hand in to the government. Neither priest nor prelate could interfere with them, nor could any of these children be removed without Her Majesty’s orders.

Of our school work, Dr. Mullens wrote in 1875: ‘We are greatly struck with your educational success; however have you managed to gather so many village schools, and fill them with so many scholars? I suppose you have managed to impart some of your own enthusiasm to the people! Well, it is a good work, and I trust God will bless it abundantly.’ And again in 1876: ‘You have sent us two capital accounts both of the general work and of the examination of the schools. We have been much struck by the development of education in your district.’

Whatever may be the views adopted by some supporters of missions, as to the wisdom of devoting missionary energy and funds to educational work in other mission fields, in Madagascar such work has always been regarded as of the greatest importance. Unless the first missionaries had established schools, the people must have grown up ignorant, and the translation of the Scriptures would have been utterly useless, as none would have been able to read them. School work has therefore been carried on at all our stations, and in connexion with almost all our village churches, and some of the best work that has been done in the mission has been done in the schools, where the minds and memories of the children have been charged with Gospel truth, which was able to make them wise unto salvation.

Distinctions have been drawn—sometimes absurdly enough—between what are called evangelistic and mere educational work. It is true there is a sense in which distinctions may be drawn; but all educational work in the mission field ought to sustain a vital relation to evangelization. The same may be said of literary and medical mission work. In some fields, medical missionary work constitutes an absolutely essential factor. Still, all these instrumentalities are but means to an end. The value of educational, literary, medical, and all other forms of missionary activity must be measured by the extent to which they prepare the way for the Gospel, and promote its acceptance by the natives. They should manifest its spirit, and multiply the points of contact with the life of the people, and thus increase the efficiency of those who preach the Gospel. ‘The test of every religious, political, or educational system is the man who is formed.’ ‘Ignorance the mother of devotion’ has never been the watchword of Protestantism at home or abroad. It expresses the policy of a very different order of religious teachers.

Having got my forty-four new village schools raised, and two thousand four hundred children gathered into them, the next thing was to get teachers. Where was I to find them? It had been difficult enough to provide for the few schools of former years. ‘Take what you have and you’ll never want,’ ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ are good old sayings. On these I acted. There were a few old soldiers in the district who knew the alphabet and understood discipline. I appointed a number of them village schoolmasters at the enormous salary of one shilling a month! That was poor pay, but then it was poor teaching; the pay and the teaching were about equal. But my soldier-schoolmasters earned their one shilling a month, and as they got no pay as soldiers they were glad to get even one shilling a month; and I could have got a hundred of them at that figure if I had wanted them. As I have said, they earned their money; for they taught the alphabet well, and they maintained discipline in the schools. This was of the greatest importance, as it is utterly neglected in Malagasy families. I have seen boys even in Britain whom I could have wished to place under my soldier-schoolmasters for six months. They would have taught them what discipline meant, and how to behave themselves.

As an example of how well they taught discipline I may mention that one day, after we had removed our station school up from the new church to the new school-house in our own yard, I went down and found three boys there after the school had been dismissed. I asked why they had not gone home when the school broke up, and they replied that they had been left, while the schoolmaster went to his dinner, to learn their lesson, as they had not known it properly. I asked them if they had learned it; they said they had, and I then asked for what they were waiting. They said they were waiting for the schoolmaster to return from his dinner to hear their lesson. These boys were sitting in an unfinished school-house; it had neither doors nor windows, only the walls and the roof, and yet they did not dream of running away.

Of course I very soon found that by such appointments—although the only ones then possible—I had only removed my difficulties a step. Soon there were a series of deputations to ask for more advanced masters. I often heard a knock at the outside door of my study, and opened it to find some six or eight half-naked Malagasy boys. To my inquiry as to what they wanted, they said they were a deputation sent to see me on business. I invited them into my study. The boy who had been appointed spokesman then stood up and addressed me as follows: ‘May you reach old age, sir, may you never be weakly, may you reach grey hairs with your wife and family!’ ‘Yes,’ I answered on these occasions, ‘thank you for your good wishes; now what is the business?’ When you are saluted in that elaborate way, you may be certain that there is something of importance to follow. The lad continued, ‘We have been appointed as a deputation by the school at such a village to wait upon you, and ask for a schoolmaster.’ I would then look up my book, to find, of course, that they had a soldier-schoolmaster. My reply usually took this form: ‘You have a teacher at that village.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ the lad would answer, ‘but he can’t read, and we can, and so we want a schoolmaster who can read!’

Of course, with teachers who could not read, you could hardly expect the schools to make very rapid progress. There was nothing for it but to take some twenty of the brightest boys from the various schools to my own station, give them a few months’ special training, and then send them out as teachers—to teach a month, and then return and learn a month—and while they were teaching they got a penny a day. Some of the sharpest of them were then picked out, and passed on to the normal school at the capital, where they get a two years’ training. A grant of sixpence a week was obtained for their support while at the normal school; and before we left on our first furlough there were sixteen trained teachers at work in the district, and most of them have been at work there since—some as teachers, others as pastors, and others as evangelists. A large government school of some four hundred boys is now taught in that school-house built in the manse yard. The three principal native teachers in that school are old lads of ours that had been sent to the capital for a normal school training.

The activity in regard to the schools in our district startled the western district into activity; then the districts to the south and the east, and other districts, followed suit, and soon there was a greatly increased number of schools at work all over the central provinces.

Twenty-four lads went up to the normal school entrance examination in 1874, but only six passed. Also two of our best and most capable women were sent to the hospital to be trained as nurses. After their return they did a good and much-needed work in the district for many years. It took time and hard fighting, however, to overcome the old heathen practices. Prejudices and superstitions die hard. Under the old heathen methods, fully a third of the women died during ‘nature’s hour of sorrow’; but our trained nurses soon made a great change in that respect, and so established their reputation.

A vast amount of splendid and much needed work was done at the Medical Mission Hospital for over thirty years by the various Medical Missionaries in charge of it. Perhaps the most thorough and valuable service rendered even there was the work done by the Matron Miss Byam (the Miss Nightingale of Madagascar), daughter of the late General Byam, in the training of a staff of Malagasy nurses. Nothing more effective in connexion with the Mission was ever done in the island.