When we first went to Siam not one woman or little girl in one hundred could read, although all the boys are taught by the priests in the temples to read and to write. One day a very bright, interesting little girl, twelve years old perhaps, came to our boat to see the strangers, and when asked if she could read, she did not answer yes or no, but with surprise exclaimed, “Why, I’m a girl!” as if we ought to have known better than to ask a girl such a question.
One day, while our cook was preparing our simple meal of rice and curry, we walked out into the pleasant grounds of a temple. Here we found a fine large tree whose beautiful white, wax-like flowers attracted us by their fragrance. While gathering some of them a young man came up and spoke to us. Fearing he would think we were going to offer the flowers to the idols in the temple, Dr. House said, “I am not going to offer these, as you would, to idols which can neither see nor smell them, but shall give them to my wife, who can enjoy them.” The tree seemed almost alive with gay butterflies. Several priests had gathered about us, and when they were asked if all this life and happiness and beauty did not make them think there must be a wise and good Creator who made the trees, flowers and butterflies with their gay dress, they replied “Pen eng” (They made themselves). Oh, is it not sad that the religion of this poor people teaches them there is no living God, no Creator who made this beautiful world? The dead god Buddha that they worship, whose images are in every temple, was but a man like themselves, and, now that he has left the world, knows and cares nothing about it.
An old priest begged our umbrella. The doctor said, “If I give it to you, very soon you will want to make merit, and will perhaps spread it over some senseless idol of brick and mortar that cannot feel the heat as we do.” Soon after, as they followed us to the boat, we actually saw an old umbrella which the wind had blown from a dilapidated image it had sheltered. When reminded of what had just been said, they laughed heartily, but I fear were not convinced of the folly of doing such things.
In the listening group one day was a gray-headed man, who asked, “Is Jesus the same as God?” “What must we do that the Lord Jesus may save us?” “What deeds of merit must we do to be followers of the true God?” When we told him that we left our home, our parents and our friends, and journeyed many thousand miles over the sea, on purpose to tell him and his countrymen of the religion of Jesus, the only Saviour from sin, he thanked us. We gave him a gospel tract on prayer, hoping that the light he had received might lead him to pray for more.
On one occasion we stopped at an old preaching-place to rest. Let me tell you what a queer place it was for a sermon. It was a large room open on all sides and decorated with sticks of very small bamboo, to which were pasted small triangular pieces of white paper. Thousands of these were clustered fancifully together. From the ceiling in the centre of the room hung a piece of cloth two or three yards long, on which was a coarse picture of Buddha with a disciple on each side of him, and above them in the clouds angels with flowers. Below them, on a black ground to represent darkness, were painted persons suffering the torments of hell and the priests trying to assist them.
The pulpit was a kind of high, armed chair, coarsely decorated. In this the yellow-robed priests sit cross-legged and preach in a singsong tone. Seeing two images of Buddha there, we told those assembled of the sin and folly of trusting in them. A young man replied at once, “How should we know better, when there is no one to tell us? I beg to listen while you tell us;” and he did listen very attentively. His question touchingly reminded us of the words of Paul: “How shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent?” (Rom. 10:14).
One day we visited an image-house, and found one idol that had fallen over backward, another without a head, another without arms. When we came out an old priest asked us if we had been in to worship. We replied, “No, indeed! What we saw there were objects of pity rather than of adoration. They cannot take care of themselves, cannot hold themselves up; what can they do for you or for us?”
Thus we went from one village to another, conversing with hundreds of the people and giving away our books until they were gone.
