Dawn Over Temple Roofs

By Lucy Starling

Originally published in 1960, Dawn Over Temple Roofs tells the enlightening story of the First Protestant Missionary to Thailand, from their very first arrival in 1828, through to the merger of the Mission with the national Church in 1957.

The book includes the following chapter titles: How it all Happened. Off to the North. A Perfect Breakfast. Pioneer Doctor. The First Language Lesson. Village Touring. Princes and Persecution. The Wrath of Men and of Spirits. Spying out the Land. Lengthening the Cords. Thrust to the East. Rivers Run South. A Decade in Muang Nan. No Clocks in the Forest. Circling the Globe. Peaceful interlude in Chiang Mai. A Boy and an Elephant. Siam all same Little China. Two Decades in Muang Lampang. Happy Victory. Mountain Rest. White Elephant and Rising Sun. Return of the Missionary. The Paths of Peace. The Prophetic Vision.

An invaluable addition to any devotee’s collection

• Language: English
• Publisher: Papamoa Press
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789126839

Lucy Starling

Lucy Starling (1879-1968) American missionary who worked South-East Asia for many years principally in North Siam Mission, frequently referred to as the North Laos Mission. Born on August 17, 1879, Ms. Starling served in Chiengmai from 1909-1911, in Nan from 1912-1922, and in Lampang from 1922-1941. Her mission work was educational and evangelical in nature, and she published Dawn Over Temple Roofs in 1960. She passed away on January 31, 1968 at the age of 88.

Book preview

This edition is published by Muriwai Books – www.pp-publishing.com

To join our mailing list for new titles or for issues with our books – [e-mail]

Or on Facebook

Text originally published in 1960 under the same title.

© Muriwai Books 2018, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DAWN OVER TEMPLE ROOFS

by

LUCY STARLING

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

PREFACE 6

HOW IT ALL HAPPENED 8

OFF TO THE NORTH 17

A PERFECT BREAKFAST 23

PIONEER DOCTOR 25

THE FIRST LANGUAGE LESSON 31

VILLAGE TOURING 36

PRINCES AND PERSECUTION 41

THE WRATH OF MEN AND OF SPIRITS 45

SPYING OUT THE LAND 58

LENGTHENING THE CORDS 63

THRUST TO THE EAST 68

RIVERS RUN SOUTH 75

A DECADE IN MUANG NAN 82

NO CLOCKS IN THE FOREST 87

CIRCLING THE GLOBE 95

PEACEFUL INTERLUDE IN CHIANG MAI 99

A BOY AND AN ELEPHANT 102

SIAM ALL SAME LITTLE CHINA 110

TWO DECADES IN MUANG LAMPANG 114

HAPPY VICTORY 119

MOUNTAIN REST 126

WHITE ELEPHANT AND RISING SUN 133

RETURN OF THE MISSIONARY 138

THE PATHS OF PEACE 144

THE PROPHETIC VISION 150

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 154

DEDICATION

To

SAWAT AND PAYAWM

PREFACE

THE time covered in this story is from the arrival of the first Protestant missionary in 1828, to 1957.

The name Siam is a foreign term of uncertain origin. The people have always called themselves Thai (free), and their country, Thailand. After World War II, it was officially decreed that the name of the country be changed to Thailand. Then the work of the Presbyterian Mission became the Thailand Mission. In 1957 there was a merger of the Mission with the national Church, and the former ceased to exist as a separate entity.

As late as 1909 when I arrived, Chiang Mai was from six weeks to three months’ journey from Bangkok, the only port. The path lay through forest and jungle. The people were rice farmers and largely illiterate. Many of the customs as I first knew them have changed or passed away. They are worth recording before they are quite forgotten.

Much of the flora and fauna is as yet unclassified and unexplored. It offers a rich field for the scientist.

Fifty years ago the country was an absolute monarchy, the king being lord of life, and of death. Now His Majesty rules a constitutional monarchy, with a legislative assembly.

Primitive temple schools for boys have developed into a government system of universal compulsory education for both sexes, culminating in a great university.

There were villages where the people had never seen a white face. Now their grandchildren are studying medicine, nursing, education, and theology in America and Europe.

Tiny, struggling chinches have developed into a national Church, with its own pastors. The role of the missionary has changed from one of benevolent paternalism to partnership with the Thai; brothers and sisters in a worldwide fellowship.

The chief sources of information concerning the first hundred years of the Mission have been: the diary of the Rev. Dan Beach Bradley, M.D.; A Half Century Among the Siamese and the Lao by the Rev. Daniel McGilvary; and the Historical Sketch of Protestant Missions, 1828-1928 edited by George Bradley McFarland, M.D.

A special debt of gratitude is due Professor Vernon Loggins of Columbia University; Dr. Tempe E. Allison of San Bernardino Valley College; Dr. William N. Wysham, Chairman of the Department of Functional Services of the Commission on Ecumenical Mission and Relations, The United Presbyterian Chinch, U.S.A.; Mrs. Jeanne Carruthers, Secretary for Publications and Fine Arts; and Franklin D. Cogswell, former General Secretary of the Missionary Education Movement. These have given generously of their time and thought, and without their counsel and encouragement this book would have been impossible.

Because the wide divergencies in spelling used by the various atlases may lead to confusion, the reader is advised that spellings used in this book are those adopted by the National Geographic Society of America and approved by the United States Board of Geographic Names of the Department of Interior of the United States.

L. S.

HOW IT ALL HAPPENED

1: NO ONE ever asks, How did you Happen to be a carpenter? or a lawyer, butcher, or a mother. Some things are taken for granted. But so often I have been asked the question, How did you happen to be a missionary? that it will have to be answered. Part of the blame must be placed on the church; and that, for me, was the First Presbyterian Church in Hopkinsville, Kentucky.

Before the Civil War there had been only one Presbyterian Church; then there were two. The split in the nation went right into the House of God, In Hopkinsville the rebels got the old building, and the Yankees took the money. They erected a new edifice in the next block and carved deep into the stone over the doorway, First Presbyterian Church. Old Mrs. Dunbar, the town’s spiritual mentor, vowed she would never enter the sanctuary as long as that lie is over the door, and she never did.

Kentucky was a border state, and families were divided. In Hopkinsville, most of the flock went to the Southern Church, while the Starlings, all of whose men had fought in the Union Army, stayed in what later became the Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A. I lived with my kin six days of the week and went to church with them on Sunday; that is, with all except Uncle Sam.

Uncle Sam had a distinguished record in the Civil War and took his fighting spirit with him into the church. Some disagreement arose, and Uncle Sam stopped passing around at the time of the offertory the red velvet bag on the end of a long pole, and never darkened the doors of the sanctuary again. The church Elders had old-fashioned ideas about hellfire for non-churchgoers, and their convictions disturbed me. Heaven would be a lonely place without Uncle Sam, even though there was tobacco on his beard when he kissed me. I was sure he wouldn’t be allowed to chew tobacco in heaven. I sat down and wrote to him, begging him to come back to church. At the age of six, I could have said little to appeal to an old soldier of eighty-six. I received an affectionate, dignified reply, but Uncle Sam never came back.

Cousin Joe was the ruling Elder and superintendent of the Sunday school. He had a sweet tenor voice, which could be heard above all the others. I sat on the front seat in Sunday school and would often go up to him and whisper, Cousin Joe, please sing this song. He usually humored me, especially if I asked for his favorite tenor solo, I have heard of a beautiful city. The blessed saint would roll his eyes to the ceiling as he sang, as if seeing that city from afar. Then I chimed in with the chorus and sang with gusto, The half has never been told, been told.

One Sunday morning I was standing in the hallway awaiting my turn at the water bucket. As I reached for the dipper, Great-aunt Maria, well over eighty, put her arm around me and said, Honey, someday I want you to be a missionary. I have never forgotten that, nor Aunt Maria’s black scoop bonnet tied with silk strings, nor how the ice-cold water tasted that winter day. For me, our Lord’s first miracle was repeated every Sunday around the communal water bucket.

If that oft-repeated miracle sometimes rent the veil between the sacred and profane, it was Cousin Mary who brought us again into the Holy Place. She was Cousin Joe’s wife. It was she who taught us that the Bible was so holy a book that we must never put another book on top of it. She always baked the Communion bread, and sternly refused us when we begged for a taste as it came fragrant from the oven. She was the one to remind us that every bush is aflame with God.{1} Too often we were preoccupied with picking blackberries.{2}

The only important person in church who wasn’t a Starling was Mr. May, the preacher. Our family never produced any preachers. Mr. May lived in one of my father’s cottages, and we were good friends. He was also a geologist and had a case full of specimens. Sometimes my little brother and I went to the river and filled our wagon with pebbles, then took them to the parsonage to be added to his collection.

Mr. May spent long hours over his sermons and was often too busy to play with us. Everyone said that he worked too hard. This disturbed me almost as much as the thought of Uncle Sam’s not going to church. So I sat down and wrote my first sermon and carted it to the parsonage in the play-wagon.

The next Sunday I was not well and stayed away from church. When the family came home, they gave an account of the service. The minister had read my sermon which, he explained, had been written by a little girl who wanted to help her pastor. This convinced me, at the age of six, that my life task would be to help Mr. May write his sermons, Perhaps they would accomplish more than letters to Uncle Sam.

Mrs, Roach was my Sunday school teacher and the church’s oldest member and good angel. One Sunday she took me to meet the Session, which received me into the church at a tender age. Then she made me a footstool from a piece of carpet, just like her own. After that, the oldest and the youngest members of the church sat together and warmed their feet on twin stools.

Cousin Joe was a premillenarian and gave me books to read. I began to wrestle with Tregelles’ book on Daniel and Lincoln’s Revelation. I had trouble keeping the four beasts and the seven trumpets in order but was fascinated by the mystery of iniquity.

Missionaries from afar sometimes visited us, and I hung on their every word. After seventy years I still see, in the mind’s eye, a tiny shoe belonging to a Chinese woman with lily feet, as the speaker held it up and told of the suffering caused by foot-binding. The story of how unwanted girl babies were thrown into the river filled me with horror and pity. Suppose my parents had drowned me!

In the woof of my life there was another strand that shaped my future. That was my father’s business. He owned a brickyard, where the Negro workmen made brick by hand. Most of the older men had been slaves and had stayed on after the Civil War in the log cabins on the banks of Little River.

Every morning my father rose at dawn and rode on horseback to the brickyard. I rode straddle behind him, my arms about his waist. Baby Edmund sat in front, clinging to the pommel of the saddle.

Uncle Bris, the overseer, came to meet us. He had already hitched the mules to the wheel, from which red mud dripped at each slow turning. Soon the mud would be poured into the molds. Uncle Bris’ twin sons, George and Wash, were carrying the molds to the sanded strip, where the contents were poured on the ground to dry. Uncle Bris let us smooth off the top of the molds with a wire, before the bricks were poured out This was more fun than making mud pies.

I knew that I was not allowed to play with Negro children. This was a stern prohibition, for kinky-haired Milly knew all the best games. But sometimes I was allowed to go to the cabin and hear Uncle Bris tell tales around the crackling wood fire that roared up the chimney. While he and Aunt Minnie puffed on their corncob pipes, I gazed up into the rafters stained by smoke, for the hants lurking there.

It would be easy to build up a case for early environment as the influence that made a missionary of me, but none of the cousins with whom I grew up wanted to be missionaries. I can only say that somewhere in my young life the seeds were sown that were some day to bear fruit and send me around the world.

I was an omnivorous reader and wrote both prose and poetry. My earliest effusion, written when I was eight and published in the town paper, was entitled The Nature and Structure of Man and ended with a poem:

Come, man, enjoy the Nature sweet,

For that will give you health.

The kind of man we like to meet

Is he who earned his wealth.

But the subject was a large one, and I was in a hurry. I next decided to be an artist. When I should have been studying, I hid behind the girl seated in front of me at school, and drew grapes around my mother’s wedding ring.

About this time the Christian Endeavor movement was inaugurated and the name of Dr. Francis Clark, the founder, became a household word. A society was formed in our church, and every Sunday night old Mr. Forrey stood by the door and gave me a verse of Scripture to read, which he had laboriously written out. No Bible verses ever meant more to me than those I read on Sabbath evenings, trembling lest someone else interrupt before I was through. It was my first practice in public speaking.

I took piano and violin lessons, and resolved to be a great musician. But I was too impatient to excel in anything. I wanted to fly before my feathers were grown. I finished high school, had a year in college, and then settled down to teaching music at home.

By this time my early interest in Christian Endeavor had taken me into the state organization. One of the most active committees was that on prison work, and I became state secretary, periodically visiting the prisons at Eddyville and Frankfurt. There could hardly have been a person less fitted for the job, or one with less knowledge of hardened criminals. The only asset I had was zeal

Our visits to the prisons were on holidays when the inmates were not at work and could attend the meetings. One Christmas Eve we packed a large trunk of gifts for the men; my brother locked the trunk and put the key in his pocket. The next morning he put on another coat, so when we arrived at the prison there was no key to unlock the trunk.

After some debate we were told that the president of the local Christian Endeavor could break any lock in the state; in fact that talent was responsible for putting him behind bars. So we called a special session, he came in rather apologetically, and in no time at all the trunk was opened. For once his proficiency was enlisted in a worthy cause.

My first venture in mission work was almost on my own doorstep; to the mountains of eastern Kentucky, where a fine Y.W.C.A. project was being conducted. I applied to work for the summer, was accepted, and arrangements were made for my conduct over the mountains. I was to go with a man who was coming down to Louisville in a farm wagon to meet his two daughters who were in a school for the blind, and take them home for vacation.

Here I ran into trouble with my mother; she opposed the idea, but I was firm and started out I got as far as Louisville, where I was to visit relatives until my escort arrived. This gave my mother time to write letters, and I went through another barrage of arguments based on the dangers of life in the Kentucky mountains, where the only movies were stills, where every mountaineer had a gun and never missed a shot It ended by my weakening, and turning my back on the mountains and going home to mother.

But I was far from defeated. Every task finished created a desire for something better, higher, more lasting, that could not be completed in a day or a year; some cause that would dwarf all other goals. If these visions faded, or my heart grew cold, a Methodist revival at home, or Robert Speer at a Christian Endeavor convention would fan the embers into flame again.

By this time the Kentucky mountains had lost their allure as a goal. The field was the world, and my heart strained for the farthest horizon. At a state Christian Endeavor convention in Lexington, Kentucky, in response to the challenge, I went forward and pledged my life to service on the foreign field. I had made the supreme commitment.

The next step was to write to the Board of Foreign Missions and ask for appointment, leaving the country to their decision. I didn’t feel wise enough to choose. Correspondence followed, then a letter came from the Board, asking if I would go to the Laos Mission in north Siam to teach. I ran to the library to find Siam on the map. My heart had already said Yes! There I found that Chiang Rai, the most northern station, was the most distant in the world from New York. This was the place for me!

In June, 1909 I went to the New Missionaries Conference to prepare for the trip to the ends of the earth. Two nights on the train through the mountains brought me to New York, grimy, battered, lonely, my enthusiasm slowly oozing away. I wandered over to Sixth Avenue where I bought a new hat—black as best suited to my calling and my frame of mind. Then I started for the meeting at 156 Fifth Avenue.

The first speaker was Dr. Arthur J. Brown, who gave the candidates good advice. All I remember after fifty years are the words, If you are not sure of your calling, there is still time to back out. I said to myself, That’s what I’ll do, just as soon as this meeting is over, But by that time I was feeling better, and when I finally went to his office, it was to have him greet me in his capacity as Secretary for Siam. Thus began a happy relationship that lasted for twenty years until his retirement. There were giants in those days; Brown, Speer, Halsey. They undergirded my weakened morale and gave me spiritual strength for the years ahead.

After the conference I went home to say goodbye to my family. My father was an ardent sportsman in his idle hours, and when other girls were playing with dolls, he had taught me to use firearms. Now, when I left home for the Far East, his parting gift was an ivory-handled pistol. I doubted how I would use it in my chosen calling; then reflected that the Apostle Paul had something to say about the weapons of the Christian’s warfare, and packed the pistol with my Bible.

We sailed from San Francisco, October 12, 1909 on the Tenyo Maru, a party of seven missionaries and three children. The Tenyo was considered the last word in Japanese ship building. All their lovely hardwoods were used in panelling, and native artisans had spared no pains to make the vessel a thing of beauty. The engineers had been less fortunate, and a constant roll to the boat made us unhappy. We made frequent stops at Japanese ports with ample time for sightseeing. At Kobe, the president of the line invited the passengers to tea at his home, to view the wedding presents of his recently married daughter.

The next stop was Hong Kong, where we left our luxury liner for a little cargo boat to Bangkok. At the head of our group were the Rev. and Mrs. Charles Callender and their two children. As I was to discover later, he loved the wide-open spaces, and as soon as a station was open and running well, he was eager to push still farther into the jungle. He was the true pioneer with an almost fanatic zeal. His wife, young and pretty, loved the city and the amenities of life. But when his desire turned to Kengtung, in faraway Burma, she took her three weeks old baby and started with him on horseback for a month’s journey.