On Monday morning, April 3d, 1867, we reached the city. We had looked forward to the arrival as a welcome rest after the long confinement of our journey in the boat. But it was only the beginning of troubles. We were not coming to an established station with houses and comforts prepared by predecessors. The Prince was off on a military expedition, not to be back for over a month. Till he came, nothing could be done. We could not secure a house to shelter us, for there was none to be had. Just outside the eastern gate of the city, however, a sala for public use had recently been built by an officer from RahÊng, to “make merit,” according to Buddhist custom. He had still a quasi claim upon it, and, with the consent of the Prince’s representative, he offered it to us. It was well built, with tile roof and teak floor, was enclosed on three sides, and opened in front on a six-foot veranda. In that one room, some twelve feet by twenty, all our belongings were stored. It served for bedroom, parlour, dining-room, and study. In it tables, chairs, bedstead, organ, boxes, and trunks were all piled one upon another. A bamboo kitchen and a bathroom were presently extemporized in the yard. That was our home for more than a year.

The news of the arrival of white foreigners soon spread far and wide. It was not known how long they would remain; and the eagerness of all classes to get sight of them before they should be gone was absolutely ludicrous, even when most annoying. “There is a white woman and children! We must go and see them.” Our visitors claimed all the immunities of backwoodsmen who know no better. In etiquette and manners they well deserved that name. Within a few feet of the sala was a rickety plank-walk leading over marshy ground to the city. Everybody had to pass that way, and everybody must stop. When the veranda was filled, they would crowd up on the ground in front as long as they could get sight of anybody or anything. If to-day the crowd prevented a good view, they would call to-morrow. The favourite time of all was, of course, our meal-time, to see how and what the foreigners ate. Almost never in the daytime could we sit down to a quiet meal without lookers-on. It was not uncommon for our visitors to pick up a knife or a fork or even the bread, and ask what that was. “They don’t sit on the floor to eat, nor use their fingers, as we do!”

This, however, is only one side of the picture. In one sense we were partly to blame for our discomfort. We could soon have dispersed the crowd by giving them to understand that their presence was not wanted. But we ourselves were on trial. If we had got the name of being ill-natured or ungracious, they would have left us, probably never to return. No. This was what we were there for. It gave us constant opportunities from daylight till dark to proclaim the Gospel message. The first and commonest question, who we were and what was our errand, brought us at once to the point. We were come with messages of mercy and with offer of eternal life from the great God and Saviour. We were come with a revelation of our Heavenly Father to His wandering and lost children. While the mass of our visitors came from curiosity, some came to learn; and many who came from curiosity went away pondering whether these things were so. Friendships also were formed which stood us in good stead afterwards when we sorely needed friends. During our time of persecution these persons would come in by stealth to speak a word of comfort, when they dared not do so openly.

As the annoyance of those days fell most heavily on the nerves of my wife, it was a comfort to learn afterwards that possibly the very first convert heard the Gospel message first from her lips, while she was addressing a crowd of visitors very soon after our arrival. Reference will be made to him later, but it may be said here that from the day when he first heard the news, he never again worshipped an idol.

Whatever was their object in coming to see us, we soon gave every crowd, and nearly every visitor, to understand what we had come for. We had come as teachers—primarily as teachers of a way of salvation for sinners. And we never addressed a crowd of thoughtful men or women who did not readily confess that they were sinners, and needed a saviour from sin. But we were not merely teachers of religion, though primarily such. We could often, if not usually, better teach religion—or, at least, could better lead up to it—by teaching geography or astronomy. A little globe that I had brought along was often my text.

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

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

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

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

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

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