To Pannaivilai

A SENTENCE from Mr. Carr’s “In Memoriam” 1 explains the action of 1897.

“Owing to the attitude of the Home Committee toward ecclesiastical matters connected with the Indian Church, Mr. Walker felt that he must devote his time to work which he believed would be more fruitful in results for eternity than that which his position as Chairman of the Council enabled him to do. Accordingly, with the full concurrence of the Home Committee, he resigned the chairmanship of the Council and went to live in Pannaivilai, where he could give himself more entirely to direct evangelistic work amongst Christians and non-Christians.”

Long ago he had learned that “even the monotonous ought to be consecrated,” and the new life offered, though under a different form, perhaps, as much monotony as the old; and he proved afresh, if he had ever doubted it, that what the ground offers to the corn of wheat is not the rapture of welcome, but only a quiet place into which it may fall and die. “But I could not go on turning the wheel in the direction in which I saw it turning, so I had to drop it,” was his way of putting it.

Naturally, there were and will be diverse opinions about this decision. We are not concerned with them here; our only business being to set forth what he did, and so far as may be why he did it. He took the blame that was lavished upon him quite calmly, as all in the day’s work, and with equal calmness the petty buzz of talk. The announcement of a local newspaper, that the Rev. T. Walker used to be a hard worker, but had now retired to the district to pray, was a small echo of the

1 C.M.8. Review, October 1912.

chatter of the time. But a word of understanding when it came, as it did sometimes from unexpected quarters, was gratefully received. “Perhaps you can do more for the Church now that you are only a voice crying in the wilderness,” wrote one who was his exact opposite in views; so the letter was a surprise and a cheer. Years afterwards, when it seemed to him as if he had spent his strength for naught so far as his own Tamil Church was concerned, the word in that letter was quoted: “A voice crying in the wilderness. Well, it is something to be allowed to be a voice.”

But the decision cost. For some years he continued to act as vice-chairman of Council, but in 1900 felt constrained to retire from that position for reasons set forth in full in a memorandum addressed by himself and Mr. Carr to the C.M.S. He rarely spoke of what it meant to him to take this line, and to hold to it year after year; but made as he was, he could not do otherwise. One of his underlinings in The Ring and the Book sufficiently describes him and his attitude towards life: “All conscience and all courage “; and another, one of many such underlinings in The Biglow Papers, exactly shows what it was not:

“No, never say nothing without you’re compelled tu,
An’ then don’t say nothing that you can be held tu.
Nor don’t leave no friction idees lay in’ loose
For the ign’ant to put to incend’ary use.”

The year of that decision, 1897, opens with a vivid hour, vivid still in memory. The punkahs were waving sleepily upon that Sunday evening, and the congregation, a few missionaries, fewer civilians, and a few Indian friends had settled down for the sermon. The preacher gave out the text: “The powers of the world to come.” The words were read with piercing solemnity; they seemed to cut through the sleepy air like a knife. All sense of time, place, and people passed suddenly; there was nothing left to think about but those great and solemn powers, the powers of the world to come. A certain nervous mannerism in the speaker which would have been disturbing if the subject had been less finely handled, was forgotten — ell the personal and trivial was forgotten; this present world with its puny powers seemed as nothing, a shrivelled leaf. Only the Eternal was important. That was the sense of the hour; it deepened life for at least one who heard. But the preacher never knew.

The journal has a note for that night which pulls the curtain back:

“Sermon preparation; much emotion of soul and even pain of heart in preparation. Preached on Heb. vi. 5 as a New Year’s message. Holy, awful Powers of the eternal age! Lord, help me and all to yield ourselves to Thee, and live in the light of them this year and evermore; not for this present evil age, but for the coming Eternity.”

Office work continued for awhile. Twice its duties included answering a summons to appear in Court; but upon each occasion there was a happy interposition. The first time neither claimant nor defendant appeared; the second time was even more notable, for the case was one of exceptional delicacy and difficulty, and a verse occurring in the morning reading of the day he had to attend Court was a great cheer. The journal entry is: “Evidence not required. Psalm cxl. 7: ’ 0 God the Lord, the strength of my salvation, Thou hast covered my head in the day of battle! ’ proved true.” The story went out that he had appealed to the Prince of Wales. “They did not know I had gone higher, even to the King of kings.” But upon February 8th there is a break in the usual, and a single urgent note: “Oh for clear guidance! Letters: one to Mr. Fox (Hon. Secretary of the C.M.S.). Oh for clear guidance!”

For upon that day he had written the last of a series of letters to the Home Committee, this time asking definitely to be set free for the work to which he believed his Lord was calling him. It was not his habit to deal in coloured speech; and the word “agony” in particular he rarely used at all, holding it sacred to the One of whose sufferings alone it is used in the New Testament. But for this once, the word is pressed out of him:

“I feel that I have reached a point when my obedience to the Committee is in danger of clashing with my obedience to God. Will you believe one who is writing after much prayer and thought and agony of soul on the subject?”

The answer to that letter was the untrammelled freedom granted him from that day forth till the hour when he wrote in his journal “Interrupted “; and found the interruption no interruption, but rather as a rest in a bar of perfect music, a measured pause leading straightway into the glory of the service which excelleth.

“May the Covenant God Jehovah uphold you in your work always.” These, the concluding words of Mr. Fox’s letter to which this appeal was the reply, were strength and comfort to the one who at that moment was torn between what seemed to be the conflicting claims of a double loyalty. It was a position set with possibilities of distress such as only the very loyal will understand; but it ended in peace.

The months which passed before the freedom immediately given could become an accomplished fact, were spent chiefly at office work, with its multiplicity of engagements, to which the coaching of a fellow-missionary in Tamil had been added by way of practice in patience. And he was a capital teacher, very patient with stupidity, at least so his pupil of that time found him, and quick to welcome the least sign of small intelligence. For example, that particular pupil happened to be keen upon the history of words; and he would hunt through his Sanskrit and Tamil dictionaries till he had satisfied her upon every minute question, thinking nothing a trouble if only the result were appreciated. Sometimes excursions would be made into a kindred subject, and the background of certain English words would be ferreted out: “rice,” for example, which comes to us through the Greek from the Tamil; “cheroot,” which is badly pronounced Tamil, and various others. But the great joy as the way opened for more extensive study was to read books far from the examination track; or to search into that fascinating by-path, the “run” of the Tamil language, a line of study which though it interested, did not appeal to the friendly Hindu munslii with whom his pupil’s mornings were spent. But the journal record is not illuminating, being merely of the line-a-day sort, dealing mainly with bare business, with here and there a prayer: “Oh for a soul athirst for the Living God!” till we come to an asterisk in the margin:

“July 20. — Packing. Examination of candidates for mission work. After dinner left for residence in Pannaivilai [a day’s journey from Palamcottah]. The Lord direct and bless.”

Pannaivilai: the name recalls a needy district, with its Hindu villages and towns; there were many Christians sprinkled about, and they alone offered work enough and to spare.

The first thing naturally was to get straight. The bungalow had been cleaned out by the sexton; but cobwebs festooned its corners, and rats and bats had a gay time in every room and verandah. It was an interesting house to explore; for it had been built in the dim past by a missionary with a mind not cut to the usual pattern, and he had built his house to match his mind. It had an upper room reached by a stair from the end of the verandah; a most useful room when converts came, the lower rooms being about as safe as an average conservatory, made as they are of windows and doors with pieces of wall between. This upper room had large windows commanding a view of life in general, another most useful quality in times of siege; and through the cracks in its boarded floor it was likewise possible to see most of what went on in the central room below; altogether a room made for the battle days so soon to come. That central room below possessed one reliable piece of furniture, a table of the massive sort, with a top so inured to life’s vicissitudes that it was impossible to do it any further injury. To the discomposure of the head of the household, who enjoyed its time-worn expression, Mrs. Walker had that tabletop scraped and tidied generally; but the table itself remained at least solidly unshakable. There were a few chairs by no means so sure of themselves, and a sideboard was set at one end of the room. The bedrooms opening on either side had curious cane beds, with little boxes which could be locked fitted under the place where the pillow should be, and there was a general sense of the ancient everywhere,

The compound, that important adjunct to the Indian house, was and is delightful. Great mango trees, grouped about the well, make patches of cool shade. Many birds live in those mangoes; notably the delightful little Paradise fly-catchers, whose long white tail-ribbons may be seen floating in and out of the green shadows. Close to the house on the northern side grows a flame-of-the-forest, a blaze of fiery glow in June; a cork tree showers its white blossoms on the ground near the gate to the west, and palm trees stand wherever they can, guarding a patch of blazing sand, covered at that time with scrub, to the satisfaction of the village goats who browsed on it, and whose unmelodious noise was the torment of the family.

A minute or two’s walk from the house on the northern side is a large Hindu village; nearer still is a shallow lake, with a shrine set on a narrow palm-covered strip of sand which runs into the water, and when the tank is full is an island. From this shrine night after night during festival times could be heard the tom-tomming and the shrieks of the devotees, a most weird and heathenish noise. That shrine, on nights after the coming out of converts, was a very pandemonium.

On the other side is the church, and the Christian village, where the pastor lived in a little long house, close to the bungalow gates. He was the man of beautiful spirit mentioned in an early journal. Isaac Abraham was his name, and his life was truly patriarchal; his way with his troublesome flock, such a patient, gentle, guileless way, was good to see. This dear old man was much in the bungalow, and his earnest and very detailed prayers were something to be taken into consideration in planning out an afternoon; once launched in petition, he went on.

The first prayer-meeting in the new home, which he and a few kindred spirits attended, was convened to pray for revival in the Indian Church. That prayer still waits for its full answer; for revival in the sense intended at that prayer-meeting has not been granted yet.

The first Church service: will it be believed that it is remembered chiefly because of a very small incident, the premature death of a butterfly? The congregation had settled down for the service, and a typical Tamil congregation is not unlike a typical English congregation in its usual expression; so that the general effect was of decorous dulness, the dulness which one imagines would sustain a most tremendous shock if suddenly it could see the Church Triumphant at worship. While things were so, quietly, uninvited, a great velvety black-andcrimson swallow-tail butterfly floated into the church. It fluttered over the heads of the people sitting on the floor, such a joyous, sinless, lovely thing fresh from the hand of the Creator, and dressed in such garments of delight that its beauty seemed to sing aloud; but no one except the children took any notice. Presently it settled on a wall, a splash of vivid colour on the bare white-wash. Then cautiously advanced an ancient catechist, armed with a spotted handkerchief. He covered the radiant creature, and carefully crushed it; the new-made wings crackled in the handkerchief. Then he gathered it up, wiped the wall, walked to the open door, and unfolding his handkerchief threw the remains out on the sand.

There are moments when it is difficult to love one’s fellow-man; but the old catechist had never read Blake:

“Kill not a moth or butterfly,

For the last judgment draweth nigh”

would have seemed inconsequent folly to him; and it was only excess of zeal: are butterflies allowed in church?

The months that followed were strenuous; missions were taken for Christians, and special meetings for workers, for men and for women; Bible-classes, meetings for prayer and prolonged waiting upon God, and numberless open-air meetings for Hindus. A Sunday school for men, women, and children was organised (Mrs. Walker’s special care), and teachers were trained. Every kind of activity likely to lead to the good of the people filled those months; and there was much individual work which does not lend itself to description. The hot part of the day, when no one came for talks, was utilised for Tamil coaching and the usual correspondence, still a formidable pile, though not official now; and there was always other work of various kinds, the revision and criticism of Tamil manuscripts being perhaps as time-consuming an occupation as any other, for such literature is usually voluminous and written in running hand, which cannot be read off like print.

Much of the writing of the time is scattered to the wind, but God’s wind loses no seed. Possibly the most fruitful of such seeds were the hymns dealing especially with fuller life in Christ, many of which were written at this time. These hymns, like many another contribution to the Church’s good, floated out without a name, and the anonymous led to the comical upon more than one occasion: “There are no good writers of hymns now,” remarked a guest with emphasis one evening; “the modern translations are worthless. Now this” (quoting the first few lines of one) “is grand; it is one translated by Fabricius” (an old German missionary). “He knew how to write good Tamil!” The translator of the hymn in question did not contradict.

But he did not write, of course, in the higher Tamil, though he was tempted to do so, as he could often have expressed himself more perfectly and much more poetically through its medium than in the simple form. But the classic words, packed with meaning, and many of them perfect picture-words, would not have been generally useful; so, often the right word, the rich word, had to be ruled out, and a more ordinary substituted. Every hymn was tried first upon a little group of spiritually-minded Indian friends before it passed into print. Some few of the higher words were retained, even if not at once intelligible, because it seemed worth while trying to enrich the Church’s vocabulary; and sometimes new phrases had to be coined to express ideas hitherto unexpressed, an experience which suggested the early days of Scriptural writing when common words became ennobled by new connotations. But in spite of the presence of an occasional classic word, the hymns grew simpler every year, and the last are the simplest of all. “Yes, it’s a pity,” he said to one who rather demurred at this perpetual shifting out of the richer element, “but you’ll find what I have written now will be more generally understood.” Few of the hymns are mere translations, none are slavish. Some are finer than the originals; often quite trivial little English rhymes have dignity in Tamil; but again, according to the translator, at least, some lose: “‘Our blest Eedeemer,’ the poetry of it! I can’t touch it,” he said; but however handicapped he may have felt, he knew when he heard of the hymns being sung by the nuns in a certain convent, that the wind was carrying the seed to needy places, and rejoiced.

Nothing during those months or ever afterwards was allowed to interrupt work. One day’s entry reads:

“Eight a.m., prayer-meeting. Tamil proof sheets (Pearson on The Creed). Heard of my father’s death. Lord, make me

hear the voice! Correspondence. Coached. Evening to

Savalai (a Hindu village) to Hindu Naiks.”

Not a word was said of the sorrow of the day to the one who was coached that afternoon, till after the Tamil lesson; though the white, drawn look about the face had told of some trouble. That day has often appeared since like a text in black and gold upon the walls of memory: “The night cometh. I must work the works of Him that sent Me while it is day.” Private grief must give place to the day’s work, he would have said if he had been asked about it; and verily he lived out the hymn in which he delighted:

“Come, labour on!

No time for rest till glows the western sky,
While the long shadows o’er our pathway lie,
And a glad sound comes with the setting sun,
‘Servants, well done.’

“Come, labour on!

The toil is pleasant, the reward is sure,
Blessed are those who to the end endure;
How full their joy, how deep their rest shall be,
0 Lord, with Thee!”

That November, in the midst of work of diverse kinds, came tidings of a fellow-missionary’s bright translation. He wrote to his sister:

“Mr. Arden died in the Red Sea on his way out to take charge of the Nilgiri Mission. He was preaching on the s.s.

Massilia on the Sunday morning on Matthew xxviii. 18-20, and when he was pressing home the truth, ‘Lo, I am with you alway,’ he fell back on the saloon floor. His spirit had gone to be with Christ. A grand, ideal death, wasn’t it? His daughter, who was with him, was wonderfully helped, and her happy face, conscious of her father’s translation to glory, testified to all on board.”

The story recalled another:

“Here in this Pannaivilai church there was once an old pastor who longed to go Home from the midst of his work; and one Sunday when he was preaching, suddenly the Lord called him. A perfect way to go, wasn’t it?”

There was still a certain, though of course immensely decreased, amount of mission business connected with conference and council, and sometimes a page in the journal reads like a walk across a somewhat sandy desert, with at the end the sudden charm of an oasis; for the return home from Palarncottah to “the wilds,” as guests who found the place hard to discover described it, was always a delight. One such oasis-line reads: “Beached Pannaivilai, 5 p.m. Revising mission Litany (Tamil); evening, picnic tea by watercourse. Quiet, calm, and rest.” Such pleasures were rare enough to be immortalised. It was a breathless evening just before the rains; but the water had not dried up in the channel, and its soft gurgle among the water weeds and grasses made music for the three on the bank who had not heard water-talk for months. Then little leaping silvery fish, with blue lights along their backs, scurried up the stream; and overhead against a sky of pink and pearl, white storks in a long straggling curve flapped homewards. After the noise and glare and rush of ten hot days, it was “quiet, calm, and rest.”

“We are going on our way quietly here,” heTwrites upon August 30th.” The work is opening out. Each evening has been given up to visiting the heathen, chiefly in their own homes, to plead with them to seek salvation. Next week, D.V., we hope to begin little missions in the Christian congregations. Pray for a rich blessing upon them. Satan is busy trying to blind eyes and harden hearts, and only the power of the living Lord can overcome him.

“We do enjoy our quiet country home. God has given us so many things which make for happiness. Next week J. is

coming to stay with us from K. I fancy she finds the rush

there a great trial, and looks forward to the quiet with us; for power is more important than what we call work, and you can’t have power unless you take time to be quiet in GOD’S presence.”

A few notes from the journal show how things went in the special missions for Christians. As before, each entry stands for the summing up of a day:

“Beating up for special services ending with prayer-meetings in church. Solemnised, but nothing more. Oh come, great Spirit, come!... J. D. G. [Indian fellow-worker] spoke; solemn again, yet no apparent movement. Lord, work! More touch in after-meeting; nice time.... Much more apparent impression and large after-meeting.... Did not see much touch to-night; oh for more of the holy Fire!... Trust there was real touch; many professed to enter into covenant. We rejoice with trembling; but the work is with our God.”

Another mission:

“Work seems to hang rather in this mission. Oh for power and Fire!... Seemed real impression and work; some of the women seemed stirred.... Last night solemn time, the real result with Him.”

Another:

“Solemn, but not much impression. Still no response, only this awful dead indifference. Lord, come, work Thou!... Much more response. Good attention, but did not grip.... Fair response; trust some were in real earnest.... Good attention, but seems to be some fog.... Last night of mission; a wedding came in the way; very little response. Oh for more power, and love, and patience!”

Those to whose lot it has fallen to take meetings of similar character among similar people will recognise the faithfulness of these notes. There is no painting, no padding, no decorat ing the plain fact of disappointment. But it sometimes seemed as if there were a lack somewhere. Truly, the Lord of hosts was Strength to them that turned the battle at the gate; but sometimes it seemed as if just at the gate the foe prevailed again. Thank God for the strength that was granted, strength to go on and never despair; but would not those at the gate see more of the glorious driving back of the enemy of souls here and now, if the backing up in prayer for them were more earnest and more sustained?

It is impossible to write such words without self-condemnation. From all slackness in prayer for those who fight Thy battles at the gate, good Lord, deliver us.

But though no great revival gladdened the workers, there were some very notable conversions which have resulted in lives spent in the service of others. Several such took place quietly, unperceived at the time, during an ordinary service in church. If results are weighed, not counted, the months were freighted with treasure for heaven.

Straight from the meetings which ended with the prayer for more power and love and patience, a mission to Ceylon was undertaken, though there was little physical fitness for it. “Tired and weary,” the journal says. It was a case of “Faint yet pursuing” very often, where these special missions were concerned; they were always times of intense strain, both spiritually and physically.

A kind Providence had arranged for a rest day at Colombo. “Could not get on to Kandy that day [day of arrival], because line breached; quiet day reading Arthur’s Tongue of Fire” a book which he felt was very bone and marrow. His old copy — published in 1878 and then in its 26th edition — is full of his marks; for its fervent yet calmly reasoned fashion of dealing with the eternal truth exactly appealed to him.

The next page or two of journal are similar to others already transcribed; there is always a watching for the highest, always that inward glance when disappointed, Lord, is it I?” Did not

1 It is tempting to stop here, and tell some of these stories that shine with joy and beauty. But the book would grow too long if it tried to tell all the noble acts of the Lord which belong to it.

feel much touch. May God remove whatever in me hinders His power!” The series closes with:

“Did not press after-meeting. God can bless His own word without our forcing results. Lord, give power to Thy word, and fruit which shall remain.”

December 12th of that year was kept sacred for prayer for India and Ceylon. It was the first of such days observed generally in India, and the journal note says: “Solemn day. Oh for more desire; oh come, Great Spirit, come!” To the writer of that journal it had been a special day spent alone with God, except when he came out of his room for prayer with others. He was the last man ever to press outward observances upon others; but for himself he had proved the inward gain to be won from such days.

He writes on the 21st:

“The day of prayer is over, and was one of blessing in South India, though we regard it as but the beginning of better things. We want to see the Holy Spirit manifestly at work, convicting of sin, changing lives, and calling Christians to cease from loving this present evil world.”

“December 31. — Another year gone, and so little real work and progress in holiness. ‘The Blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin,’” is the last journal note. So the year ends.

“Its present aspect [Hinduism’s] may be compared to an immense mosaic which, having had no one maker, has been compacted together by a succession of artificers and inlaid with every variety of strange and fanciful image. Or rather perhaps may we liken it to a colossal edifice formed by a congeries of. heterogeneous materials, without symmetry or unity of design — a vast, overgrown, irregular structure — which, although often falling into decay in its outlying extremities, still rises from its ruins, still goes through repeated processes of repair, still holds its own with obstinate pertinacity, and still belies the expectations of those who are looking for its downfall.”

SIR MOXIER WILLIAMS, Brahmanism and Hinduism.