Part 14

"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 diarrhoea. 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.