Such, as I learned next day from the attending prince, were the last hours of His Highness Chao Kāwilōrot Suriyawong, Prince of Chiengmai. He died at ten o’clock in the morning of June 29th, 1870, in the seventieth year of his age, and in the sixteenth of his reign.
Next morning before breakfast I was sent for by the younger daughter of the Prince, to go to the residence of the nephew, whom I had left late in the evening before in such a distracted state of mind. How shocked was I on entering to find the prince cold and dead! The Princess wished to get my judgment whether he was really dead beyond all hope of resuscitation. But it required no skilled physician to answer that question. He had evidently died by a dose of opium administered by his own hands. The little cup from which it was taken was still by his bedside. Whether it was intentional suicide to escape the lawsuits of his deceased master, or was simply designed to ease the mental troubles of that night, they could tell as well as I. In either case, he slept the sleep that knows no waking till the summons of the last trump.
After breakfast I rode out to the encampment, only two or three miles away, where the body of the Prince was lying. The family and officers and friends were assembled to look for the last time on that noted face. The last act before placing the body in the coffin was to cover it throughout with gold-leaf, to give it the appearance of being a Buddha. But no gold-leaf could disguise that face. The family remained there a few days, partly for the much-needed rest, but chiefly to await a day of good augury for carrying the remains to the city.
The day was well chosen for such a pageant as the country had not seen, to honour alike the departed, and to welcome the succeeding Prince. There was a long and imposing procession of soldiers, monks, and people marching to the wailing of the funeral dirge and to the slow, solemn beat of drums. Near the head of the line, on his elephant, was the son-in-law, Chao Intanon, soon to be Prince of Chiengmai. Not far behind came the body of the dead Prince, borne on a golden bier and accompanied by a large train of yellow-robed priests. Behind this was the vacant throne, and on it the royal crown, both testifying to the emptiness of human pomp and power. Then came one leading the horse His Highness used to ride; and next, his favourite elephant, its huge body covered with trappings of gold. After these came members of the Prince’s family and other near relatives.
About ten o’clock the procession approached the city which, by inexorable custom, may never open its gates to receive the dead—not even though the dead were he whose word for so many years had been its law. What a comment on human glory and on the tyranny of superstitious custom! On reaching the South Gate, therefore, the procession turned to the right, and passed on outside the city wall to the East Gate. There, in the Prince’s summer garden, beside the river, his remains lay in state until the great cremation ceremony a year later. Meantime a lamp was kept burning at the head and at the foot night and day. A prince was in constant attendance. Courses of monks chanted the requiem of the Buddhist ceremonial for the dead. At intervals during the whole night the beat of the drum resounded through the air, reminding the city that there lay all that remained of one of its greatest masters.
Prince Intanon, though not yet officially installed, assured me, as soon as I met him at the encampment, that we were to remain and build our houses and prosecute our work without let or hindrance. Other princes and officers were pleased to give the same assurance. With the Prince’s party there came a large mail from friends in Bangkok, giving full particulars of the negotiations that were stopped by the sudden illness of the Prince, and clearing up the questions about which we were so much in doubt. The interposition of Providence had been so marked that we could only stand in awe before Him who had so wonderfully led us. For, after the utmost stretch of my own credulity in trying to trust the Prince, my final conviction is that, had he lived, he and the mission could not have existed in the same country. He could never have endured to see his people becoming Christians—Not that he cared so much for Buddhism; but it would have been a constant challenge to his autocratic rule.
In March, while the scenes of this tragic drama were slowly enacting in Bangkok, and while we were anxiously awaiting the dénouement, we had a pleasant episode of another kind. One morning we were surprised to learn from some natives that out on the plain, not far from the city, they had passed two white foreigners, a man and a woman, and that they were coming to our house. Sure enough, about ten o’clock, who should ride up but Rev. and Mrs. J. N. Cushing of the American Baptist Mission in Burma! What an unexpected pleasure! For three years we had seen but two white faces outside of our own little circle. Some of our latest news from home friends was eleven months old when we received it. What a social feast we did have!
They had started from Shwegyin, Burma, had made a tour west of the Salwin River, crossed over to Keng Tung, come down by Chieng Sên and Chieng Rāi, and now called at Chiengmai on their way back to Burma. Their visit was a real godsend to us in the time of our troubles.