FOUR YEARS IN UPPER BURMA.

[Illustration: SACRED BUILDINGS OF THE BUDDHISTS.]




                                FOUR YEARS
                                    IN
                               UPPER BURMA.

                                    BY
                              W. R. WINSTON.

                                “Spread it then,
                And let it circulate through ev’ry vein
                Of all your empire; that where Britain’s power
                Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.”

                                                     _The Tusk._

                                 London:
             C. H. KELLY, 2, CASTLE STREET, CITY ROAD, E.C.;
                      AND 66, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
                                  1892.

      Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.




PREFACE.


I had certainly no intention of writing a book when I commenced to put
together the information contained in these pages. All I purposed to
do was to prepare a short report of work done. But I found that the
interesting material at hand was too abundant to be compressed within the
limits I had originally intended.

The need for a better knowledge, on the part of our English people
generally, of the distant dependencies of the British Empire is
undeniable, if they are to discharge at all intelligently the duty of
governing the many races, which the circumstances of an ever-widening
empire, and the extension of the parliamentary franchise, have placed in
their hands. The story is told of a member of Parliament who did not know
Burma from Bermuda; and as I have myself found the very same confusion
of the two places, in three separate instances, by gentlemen that might
have been thought fairly well educated, to say nothing of a respectable
alderman who asked whether Burma was an island, and frankly admitted he
was very ignorant about it, I can quite believe the story to be true.

Not only is there a need for more knowledge of the countries and races
we govern, there is also a demand for it. The events of recent years,
especially those resulting from the annexation of King Theebaw’s country,
have drawn Burma into much closer touch with England; and many people,
by no means ignorant of Burma before, now feel a much deeper interest
than formerly in all that pertains to that interesting country, whose
destinies are henceforth so intimately bound up with our own.

I have endeavoured to draw as faithful and accurate a picture as possible
of the country and people, and I have tried to show, from the standpoint
of a sympathetic but impartial witness, what the annexation of an
Oriental country like Burma really means, what are its immediate results,
and what are the many strong points and the few weak points in our rule.

In seeking to raise the condition of a heathen people no remedy can
be regarded as a substitute for the Gospel. We value civilisation
very highly, with all that it implies in our case—in the way of good
government, material prosperity, the amelioration of the conditions of
life amongst the people, the progress of knowledge, and the introduction
of the arts and conveniences of life—but the only true basis for the
highest type of civilisation is the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The best
instances of a civilisation without the Gospel are in the East, but even
the civilisation of the East is, at its best, an arrested civilisation.
Those races are “civilised but not enlightened”; they always stop short
of that capacity for constant progress which characterises only the
nations that have embraced the Gospel; and they achieve that capacity
when they have embraced it. Hence the carrying on of evangelistic work
in Burma is a matter of great importance, and my earnest desire is that
this little work may do its humble part in deepening that prayerful
interest upon which missionary effort depends for its support and
continuance.

In addition to those authors that I have consulted on Burma, and have
quoted here and there in the course of this work, I would especially
mention my indebtedness to that most appreciative and sympathetic
observer of the Burman, Mr. J. G. Scott (Shway Yoe), whose work, in two
volumes, entitled _The Burman: his Life and Notions_, gives perhaps
the best and most complete account of the Burmese people that has yet
appeared. I have availed myself of his extensive information to confirm
or supplement my own in points where it is obvious that four years was
not a long enough period upon which to form a reliable judgment.

                                                            W. R. WINSTON.




CONTENTS.


                                                             PAGE

                           CHAPTER I.

    INTRODUCTORY                                                1

                          CHAPTER II.

    THE JOURNEY TO MANDALAY                                     9

                          CHAPTER III.

    MANDALAY IN 1887                                           20

                          CHAPTER IV.

    THE PEOPLE OF MANDALAY                                     33

                           CHAPTER V.

    THE PACIFICATION OF UPPER BURMA                            42

                          CHAPTER VI.

    BRITISH INFLUENCE IN THE SHAN STATES                       54

                          CHAPTER VII.

    FIVE YEARS OF BRITISH RULE                                 64

                         CHAPTER VIII.

    INTOXICANTS IN BURMA—THE LIQUOR QUESTION                   75

                          CHAPTER IX.

    INTOXICANTS IN BURMA—THE OPIUM QUESTION                    80

                           CHAPTER X.

    THE FRONTIER MOUNTAIN RACES OF BURMA                       91

                          CHAPTER XI.

    BUDDHISM IN BURMA                                         107

                          CHAPTER XII.

    BURMESE RELIGIOUS INSTITUTIONS AND USAGES                 121

                         CHAPTER XIII.

    THE BURMANS                                               135

                          CHAPTER XIV.

    BURMESE HOME LIFE                                         148

                          CHAPTER XV.

    A TRUE IDEAL MISSIONARY AND A FALSE MISSIONARY IDEAL      166

                          CHAPTER XVI.

    OUR EARLY EXPERIENCES IN THE BURMA MISSION                187

                         CHAPTER XVII.

    FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS                                      203

                         CHAPTER XVIII.

    SEEKING THE LOST                                          224

                          CHAPTER XIX.

    A JUNGLE JOURNEY                                          238

                          CHAPTER XX.

    THE HOME FOR LEPERS AT MANDALAY                           251




LIST OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                                      PAGE

    SACRED BUILDINGS OF THE BUDDHISTS                        _Frontispiece_

    A VILLAGE ON THE IRRAWADDY                                          11

    ENTRANCE TO A BURMESE PAGODA                                        13

    ONE OF THE GATEWAYS OF THE ROYAL CITY OF MANDALAY                   23

    PART OF THE PALACE OF MANDALAY (SOUTH SIDE)                         29

    “THE SHANS ARE DISTINGUISHABLE BY THEIR DARK, BAGGY TROUSERS,
      AND THE VERY LARGE PLIABLE STRAW SUN-HATS THEY WEAR”              35

    DACOITS IN PRISON WITH INDIAN SEPOY GUARD                           45

    THE GOLDEN PAGODA AT MANDALAY                                       61

    BURMESE WOMAN ON HER WAY TO THE WELL TO DRAW WATER                  73

    BURMESE CHILDREN                                                    93

    TATTOOING OF THE FACES OF CHIN WOMEN                               105

    “IMAGES OF BUDDHA ARE EXTENSIVELY USED”                            109

    “IN THE MORNING THE MONKS INVARIABLY GO FORTH, CARRYING THE
      ALMS-BOWLS, TO COLLECT THEIR DAILY FOOD FROM THE PEOPLE”         117

    BURMESE PEOPLE AT THEIR WORSHIP                                    125

    GREAT BELL AT THE MENGOHN PAGODA                                   133

    SPECIMEN OF BURMESE TYPE                                           137

    A BUDDHIST MONASTERY                                               141

    “EVERY BURMAN YOUTH, AS HE GROWS UP, IS TATTOOED FROM THE
      WAIST TO THE KNEES”                                              149

    BURMESE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER                                        153

    SPECIMEN OF THE CARVINGS SEEN AT THE MONASTERY BUILDINGS           159

    THE PREACHERS OF THE MISSION                                       171

    OUR FIRST HOME IN MANDALAY                                         189

    A DEPOSITORY FOR IMAGES OF BUDDHA                                  197

    GROUP OF BURMESE LADIES                                            201

    SCHOOL-CHAPEL AT PAKOKKU                                           205

    SCHOOL-CHAPEL AT MANDALAY                                          209

    “THERE ARE NO ZENANAS AMONG THE BURMANS”                           217

    GIRLS OF THE CHIN TRIBE                                            247

    THE HOME FOR LEPERS, MANDALAY                                      259

[Illustration: PROVINCE OF BURMA

EAST INDIES]




FOUR YEARS IN UPPER BURMA.




CHAPTER I.

_INTRODUCTORY._


The annexation of Upper Burma on January 1st, 1886, opened up to England
a large and valuable addition to her foreign possessions, whilst it
perceptibly widened the ever-increasing area of her responsibilities,
both political and moral. Including the Shan States tributary to the
kingdom of Burma, the annexation added to Lower or, as it was then
called, British Burma, a territory as large as France, thus making all
Burma a compact province of our Indian Empire, as large as France and
Great Britain together, and bringing British India right up to the
frontiers of China.

The resources of Burma are very considerable. Its mineral wealth includes
gold and silver, iron and tin; its mines of rubies and sapphires are
noted all over the world; its coal and earth-oil are likely to prove of
great value; jade, a green stone much prized in China and Japan for the
manufacture of bracelets and trinkets, is found in large quantities in
Upper Burma, and amber is met with in the northern parts of the country.
As the country and its productions become opened up, these treasures are
sure to receive the attention they deserve.

The soil of Burma is generally very fertile, and with its diversified
elevation and climate of mountain, plain and tableland, almost every
variety of tropical productions can be grown, as well as many belonging
to the temperate zone. Lower Burma, especially the great delta of the
Irrawaddy, affords unrivalled scope and suitable climate for the growth
of rice, the staple food of so large a part of the human race. The area
under cultivation for rice in Lower Burma is 4,339,000 acres, and for
other crops 474,000 acres, and besides all local consumption, there is
the enormous total annual export of rice by sea of 1,145,000 tons.

The dry climate and rich soil of Upper Burma render it more suitable for
the growth of wheat, maize, cotton, and many native grains, vegetables
and fruits than for rice. On the mountains indigenous tea is grown, is
manufactured by natives, and can be bought in any bazaar. Burma is the
chosen home of the teak, that prince among timber trees. The reserved
forests are under the care of a Government Department for forest
conservation, and are the property of the Crown. They cover an area of
several thousand square miles, and yielded in the year 1889-90, 260,074
tons of teak, beside other valuable timbers and forest productions,
including indiarubber and cutch. Cutch is the common commercial name for
a product of the _Acacia Catechu_ tree, very valuable as a dye. These
forests brought into the public revenue, when all expenses were paid, a
net surplus of 3,388,400 rupees for the year 1889-90. The export of teak
timber, chiefly for the European market, amounted to 184,431 tons, and
the average value was about £10 a ton. Thus Burma is already a country of
great material wealth, with vast possibilities of growth and development.

According to the census of 1891 the population of Burma, including the
Shan States, is 8,098,014. This total is made up as follows:—

    Lower Burma with an area of 87,957 sq. mls., population 4,658,627
    Upper Burma   ”       ”     83,473    ”           ”     3,063,426
    Shan States   ”       ”     40,000    ”           ”       375,961
                                                            ---------
                                                            8,098,014
                                                            ---------

With regard to the population of the towns, Mandalay stands first
with 188,815. Next to this is Rangoon, the capital and the seat of
Government, with 180,324; Maulmein has 56,000. The rest of the towns are
considerably smaller.

The population of Burma is scanty in proportion to its area and
resources; in fact, population is the great requisite for the development
of the country. The quickening touch of British rule and commerce is
effecting much in the direction of supplying this need. Every district,
without exception, in Lower Burma shows an increase in the last ten
years, an increase of 22 per cent. on the whole. The Indian Government
is disposed to make the rich province of Burma an outlet for the
congested populations of some of the provinces of India, and the great
steamer companies are accomplishing this by conveying many hundreds of
natives every week from the Indian ports to Rangoon, thereby enriching
themselves, enriching Burma, and giving to these people a sphere and
a chance in life, where their humble energies may receive their due
reward. It is in manifold ways like this that civilisation and a firm
and enlightened rule bestow such blessings on these teeming Oriental
populations. The number of these immigrants from India into Rangoon, the
chief seaport of Burma, during 1890 was 86,609. Owing to the customs of
the natives of India, and their reluctance to break entirely away from
home and country, there were in that year 65,055 who returned to India.
This leaves a balance of over 20,000 for the year, which may represent
approximately that very welcome addition to its population which Burma
receives from India year by year. Rangoon itself is largely Indian in
population, and Indians are to be found all over the country in great
numbers.

Both Upper and Lower Burma have yet large tracts of waste land,
unoccupied territory that would well repay cultivation, and it is to
be hoped that an agricultural population will be attracted from India.
Should the railway system of Burma, now being rapidly developed, be
united to that of India, that will no doubt be brought about in course
of time. As the price of labour, roughly speaking, is 100 per cent. more
than it is in India, and as the cost of living is not more than 50 per
cent. higher, the balance is decidedly in favour of the immigrant.

Burma is watered by magnificent rivers. Chief of these is the Irrawaddy,
with Rangoon near its mouth, and chief among its tributaries is the
Chindwin. Both these rivers are great arteries of trade, being navigated
not only by great numbers of the quaint-looking Burmese vessels, but by
the large and powerful steamers of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, which,
since 1867, has been trading on these rivers. Their steamers now ply
regularly several times a week up the Irrawaddy to Mandalay, 500 miles,
and even as far as Bhamo, some 250 miles farther, and up the Chindwin
as far as Kendat. These steamers are splendidly built of steel, with
flat bottom, and lower and upper deck, with ample accommodation both for
saloon and deck passengers, and are fitted throughout with the electric
light. Some of them will carry considerably over a thousand passengers
besides cargo.

Historically Upper Burma is a land of great interest. It was all that
remained of the once powerful Burmese empire, which in the early part
of this century was strong enough to menace our Indian territory, and
extended from Siam, in the south, to the confines of Bengal, in the
north, and from China to the Bay of Bengal.

Each of the three Burmese wars has arisen in a similar way, and has been
marked by the same features on the part of the Burmese Government,—viz.,
an unwillingness to listen to reason, with much bluster and ignorant
self-sufficiency at the outset, and inferior military qualities in the
performance,—and each has resulted in the annexation of some part of the
kingdom to British territory. Arakan and Tenasserim were acquired by
treaty after the first Burmese war in 1824-26; the province of Pegu was
occupied and retained, consequent on the second war in 1852-53; this gave
us the command of the Irrawaddy, with Rangoon for a seaport; the third
and last war, in 1885, took away all that remained of Burmese rule, and
the kingdom of Burma became a thing of the past.

Much may be said against war in the abstract, and against wars of this
description in particular. It would be easy to represent such a war as
this, so far away from England, as aggressive and unjustifiable. I am no
advocate for war of any kind, and I am not anxious to defend this action
of England in conquering and annexing the last remnant of the Burman
kingdom. But I can see that a question of this kind is not to be so
summarily settled as may appear on the face of it.

England long ago embarked in India on a career of empire, prompted rather
by the force of circumstances than of set purpose; and now it often
seems difficult to decide when to go forward and where to stop. I will
not attempt to unravel this tangled skein, but will merely say that,
leaving aside the questions of how England came by her vast power and
influence in the East, and whether she ought ever to extend it, and if
so under what circumstances, it seems to me that ultimately and finally
the verdict must turn on the use she makes of this unique position, and
what she accomplishes with her unrivalled opportunities in the material,
intellectual, social and moral advancement of the many races and nations
that she rules or protects.

Coming now to the immediate causes of the Burmese war of 1885, the
following is the official account of them from the British standpoint:—

“Complaints against the Burmese Government meanwhile multiplied,
British subjects suffered insult and violence at the hands of local
officials, and no redress could be obtained. Trade monopolies were
created in defiance of the express terms of the Treaty of 1867. The
disorganisation of Upper Burma infected with disorder the adjacent
districts of the British province. Negotiations were carried on by the
Burmese Government for the purpose of contracting close alliances with
other European countries, to the studied neglect of England. These causes
had contributed to make the situation very unsatisfactory to the British
Government, but were not such as to demand active interference. A _casus
belli_ arose, however, out of a specific act of the Burmese Government,
who raised a large claim, amounting to several lakhs of rupees, against
the Bombay-Burma Trading Corporation, a company of merchants, mainly
British subjects, who had a large business in Upper Burma. In view of
the magnitude of the claim, and of the interests of British subjects
involved, mediation was attempted by the British authorities in order
to ensure an impartial investigation. The mediation was ignored; and
the company, without being allowed reasonable opportunity for defending
themselves, were condemned by the Burmese Council to be mulcted to the
amount of 2,300,000 rupees. The British Government protested against this
arbitrary act; and their demand to have the proceedings stayed until
the matter had been referred to an arbitrator was peremptorily refused.
It was on this refusal that the British Government decided to send to
the King of Burma an ultimatum, which should be designed to adjust once
for all the relations between the two countries. The ultimatum required
the king not only to suspend proceedings against the corporation, and
to receive an envoy with a view to the settlement of the matter at
issue, but also for the future to permit the residence at Mandalay of a
British agent, who should be treated with due respect. It was added, too,
that the external relations of Burma should in future be regulated in
accordance with the advice of the British Government, and that facilities
should be given for opening up trade with China. This ultimatum was
dispatched on October 22nd, 1885, and a satisfactory reply was demanded
by November 10th. On November 9th the reply was received, containing
an absolute refusal of the proposed terms. Moreover, on November 7th
a proclamation had been issued by the King of Burma, calling on his
subjects to rally round him, that he might annihilate these heretic
foreigners, and conquer and annex their country. The ultimatum had thus
led to war. The expeditionary force, already prepared, crossed the
frontier on November 14th, and within a fortnight from that day Mandalay
had been occupied by General Prendergast and his troops, and the king was
a prisoner. The only serious resistance met with had been at Minhla.”

Such were the events leading up to the war. The demands of the British
Government seem not unreasonable, but the stubborn folly of the King of
Burma refused them. One cannot but regret that the resources of modern
civilisation have as yet established no alternative in such a case of a
petty Oriental monarch and a great power like England but an ultimatum
and war. King Theebaw was such a ruler that it was in vain to think of
reinstating him; no other likely ruler was to be found; annexation was
the only way to meet the case. The king was removed to India with his
family, his retinue, and his chief astrologer, and there he has been in
gilded seclusion ever since. On January 1st, 1886, the proclamation was
made that Upper Burma was annexed to our Eastern possessions, and the
fact came home to the British mind that a large, valuable, interesting
country was now open to British enterprise and incorporated with our
Indian Empire.

To the Christian public of England the announcement of the annexation
came as a call to duty in regard to the spread of the Gospel amongst a
people who had long been suffering from a cruel and tyrannical ruler.
From time immemorial the palace of the Burman rulers, chiefly owing
to the general practice of polygamy on the part of the kings, and the
consequent troops of queens and princes and princesses, has been the
scene of much intrigue and corruption, and occasional bloodshed and
revolution. Absolute monarchy is almost inseparable from occasional acts
of cruelty and tyranny, even if just and kind in the main. But a weak
ruler with an insecure title, like the last of the Burmese kings, cannot
afford to be lenient, and is more likely to be cruel than a stronger man
would be. The disorders of the reign of King Theebaw had made a deep
impression on the English mind. He had gained the throne by a court
intrigue, for he was not the rightful heir, so that he had to keep by
force what he had got by fraud. The result was the massacre of about
seventy of the royal family, who were put to death as possible rivals of
the new king. That was in 1879, but a greater massacre occurred in 1884,
when, owing to the intrigues of certain Burman officials, an attack was
made upon the jails of Mandalay, and over three hundred persons were put
to death, including some inoffensive princes.

As a very striking proof of the fact that the country was in a most
wretched state, bordering on anarchy, by reason of misgovernment,
extortion, bad trade and dacoity, it may be mentioned that in a few
years no less than ten thousand people of Upper Burma had crossed the
border and taken up their abode in British Burma, in order to escape
oppression, and live in security under a more beneficent rule. The tide
of population has since the annexation been flowing back to Upper Burma.

Naturally much interest was felt in England over the altered condition
of things, and thousands of Englishmen, on seeing the news of the
annexation, felt that no time should be lost in securing to the Upper
Burmans the liberty of British subjects, and that security to person and
property enjoyed by all who are under British rule; and many felt, above
all things, that it was a call to give them the Gospel.




CHAPTER II.

_THE JOURNEY TO MANDALAY._


It was in the month of January 1887 that I left Calcutta, in company
with my old friend and former colleague, the Rev. J. Brown, of Calcutta,
for Burma. We were on a prospecting expedition with a view to the
establishment of a Mission in Upper Burma. On reaching Rangoon we were
cordially received by the members of the American Baptist Mission, and
spent a few days there. Rangoon is one of the most remarkable cities in
the East for rapid growth and commercial prosperity. It was only after
the second Burmese war in 1852-53 that it became British territory. Since
then it has grown to be a city of 180,324 inhabitants. This population
is by no means all Burman, but is largely English and Eurasian, Indian
and Chinese. Its railways, steam tramways, public buildings, sawmills,
ricemills, the shipping at anchor in the river, its banks, warehouses,
public buildings and shops, at once proclaim it the busy capital of
Burma, and in all probability a place destined to see a still greater and
more prosperous future as the resources of the country develop.

After a day or two spent in Rangoon and a visit to Toungoo, we proceeded
by rail to Prome, which is some 150 miles from Rangoon, and there we
embarked on the Irrawaddy by one of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company’s
splendid river steamers for Mandalay. It was then a time of great demand
for transport, on account of the military operations for the pacification
of Upper Burma, so that there were, in addition to a large number of
Burman and Indian passengers, many military men coming and going. On
that occasion we had over a thousand passengers on board. Not long after
leaving Prome we passed what was formerly the British frontier station
and port of Thayetmyo. Henceforth the contrast between the trim neatness
of the towns under British rule and those of the Upper country was
sufficiently apparent; and for many a long day after, the frequent sound
of the bugle, and after dark the challenge of the sentries, together with
the very warlike state of the news, and the constant sight of soldiers
and police, always fully armed, and of gangs of dacoits being brought in
manacled, kept us in mind of the fact that we had come to a land where
the security of life and property we were accustomed to was only in
course of being established.

Towards sunset we reached Minhla, on the right bank of the Irrawaddy;
and as we made fast for the night right opposite, we had time before it
was dark to step ashore and climb the precipitous bank and look over the
redoubt, the taking of which was the only action worth mentioning in the
expedition. It is a square-built stone fort, and was well manned with
Burmese troops. The British force went round by the jungle, and got to
the back of the fort, where there was a way leading up to the ramparts;
and having fought their way up to the summit, the Burmans inside were
at their mercy, as the machine guns in the armed steamers on the river
covered the exit by the front. Thus the place was taken.

Next morning saw us steaming away again up the river. The scenery varies
much. Now the banks of the river are flat, showing the country for miles,
and again high banks and rolling hills diversify the scene. Further up,
near Bhamo, in the defiles, the mighty river has forced its way between
high mountains which rise suddenly from the water’s edge, and the scenery
there is majestic. Numbers of villages and small towns are seen on the
banks of the river, for here, as elsewhere, the fresh water of the river
means life to man and beast, and verdure and freshness to the crops
irrigated from it.

Almost every hill and knoll for much of the way has one or more of the
dazzling white, bell-shaped, brickwork pagodas so common all over this
Buddhist land, in most cases surmounted with the “htee” or “umbrella,”
a large iron framework of that shape, richly covered with gold leaf; and
at various points the pagoda is hung with numbers of bells, that tinkle
musically with every breeze. The number of pagodas is truly astonishing,
and the amount they must have cost is one of the marvels of this strange
and interesting country.

Pagodas are seen everywhere and in large numbers. Not only is there
hardly a village without them, but they are to be seen on lonely
hillsides and hilltops in abundance, and sometimes in almost inaccessible
places, on some crag or ledge of rock overlooking the plain. The reason
for this vast multiplication of pagodas is not far to seek. Of all works
of merit none is so effectual as the building of a pagoda.

[Illustration: A VILLAGE ON THE IRRAWADDY.]

The following day, in the early morning twilight, we passed Pagân, a most
remarkable place on the left bank of the river. It is one of the many
former capitals of Burma, being the Royal City in the thirteenth century,
but is now practically deserted, except for a few hundreds of pagoda
slaves—an outcast class, condemned under Burmese rule to lifelong and
hereditary service about the religious buildings.

“It is practically,” says a recent writer, “a city of the dead; but as a
religious city, it is certainly the most remarkable and interesting in
the world, not excepting Mecca, Kieff or Benares. For eight miles along
the river bank, and extending to a distance of two miles inland, the
whole surface is thickly studded with pagodas of all sizes and shapes,
and the very ground is so thickly covered with crumbling remnants of
vanished shrines, that according to the popular saying, you cannot
move foot or hand without touching a sacred thing. A Burmese proverb
says there are 9,999. This may or may not be true; but in any case it
is certain that an area of sixteen square miles is practically covered
with holy buildings. They are of every form of architecture and in every
stage of decay, from the newly built fane glittering in white and gold,
with freshly bejewelled umbrella on its spire, to the mere tumulus of
crumbling brick, hardly to be distinguished now from a simple mound of
earth.”

They are also of very various sizes, some of them being fine and
imposing buildings, and others very small. What a weird sight it was,
in the dim twilight of the early morning, to see from the upper deck
of the steamer, passing before us like a panorama for eight miles, the
towering growths of many centuries of vain offerings, of useless and
unavailing endeavours. All was dark and gloomy; mist and the dim twilight
covered everything. It was the abode of the dead. Those pagodas were
the memorials of a dead faith, and all the self-sacrifice that produced
them was but elaborate self-seeking. The buildings seen in the distance
put me in mind of a cathedral city, but it was a chilling thought that
amid all that grim and solitary vastness there were neither worshippers
nor worship—nothing, in fact, but a dreary waste of pagodas, most of
them in various stages of decay. A subsequent visit to Pagân, and the
more leisurely survey of this marvellous place, made one feel still more
the sadness of the spectacle of this untold expenditure of property and
labour, and the result neither honour to God nor benefit to man. Such is
human “merit,” and such are all attempts to accumulate a store of it.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO A BURMESE PAGODA.]

It is a curious feature about pagodas that though so many are seen going
to decay they still continue to build. The explanation of this is that
the work of special merit is to build a pagoda, and no special merit
attaches to the work of restoration or repair, except in the cases of the
few pagodas of great renown, which are greatly resorted to by worshippers
and pilgrims.

On the morning of the fourth day from Prome we reached Mandalay. Here we
met the Rev. J. H. Bateson, who had arrived three weeks before, having
come out from England in the capacity of Wesleyan chaplain to the Upper
Burma Field Force.

The first thing to attend to after we had looked round a little was to
find a place to lodge. This matter was soon settled by our Army chaplain
taking us to the quarters which had been assigned to him by the military
authorities. This lodging was novel, for it consisted of one of the
buildings belonging to a large Buddhist monastery, substantially built of
teak, and with the usual highly quaint, ornamental and fantastic-looking
roof, richly decorated with most elaborate carving all over, and tapering
at one end into the form of a spire. There were many other buildings
of a similar kind around us, some of them really grand and imposing.
Within a very short distance of us, in buildings of a similar kind, which
are quite different from the ordinary Burmese houses, the whole of the
2nd Battalion of the Hampshire Regiment, several hundreds strong, were
lodged. It was said by the chief Buddhist authorities about the time of
the annexation that there were close upon six thousand monks in Mandalay,
but there are monastery buildings to accommodate many times that number.
In addition to all the monks, the entire British force of English troops,
Native Indian Sepoy troops, and military police in Mandalay, altogether
several thousands strong, were lodged in monastery buildings, and still
there was plenty of room to spare.

Mandalay has been well styled the Vatican of Buddhism. So numerous are
the religious buildings they seem almost endless, and it is evident that
no small portion of the resources of the country must have gone in these
works of merit. Within a day or two of our arrival, when we began to look
about, we found that we were in close proximity to many remarkably fine
religious buildings, and many startling contrasts were brought into view
by the exigencies of the times. Close by the quarters of the Hampshire
Regiment was a pagoda of fantastic shape. Being a brick building, and not
liable to catch fire, it had been put in use as the armourer’s shop, and
there the regimental blacksmith was at work with his anvil and tools, his
portable fireplace and bellows, and close beside him, as he worked, was
the beautiful marble image of Buddha for which the pagoda was erected.

The regimental canteen, from whence proceeded of an evening the loud
laughter of the soldiers in their cups, and the singing of many a
long-drawn-out song in the true English vernacular, was originally a
building consecrated to Buddhist meditation, asceticism and prayer. The
regimental guard-room—and in those days they had to keep good watch and
ward, for the country was in a state of great disturbance—was a Burmese
zayat or resting-place, built by the piety of some one for the benefit
of frequenters of these holy places, who little imagined that his zayat
would ever be used as a place of detention for drunken and refractory
British soldiers.

But the great sight of the place is the “Incomparable Pagoda,” as the
Burmans proudly style it, situated close by the guard-room, and directly
facing the beautiful monastery building then used as the officers’ mess.
This remarkable structure is a huge pile of building raised upon vast
masonry pillars. It measures fully 300 feet in length, is proportionately
broad, and rises in the form of a pyramid to such a height as to be
visible several miles off. Its sumptuously carved and gilded teak-wood
doors, forty-four in number, are quite a sight to see in themselves, as
is also the magnificent decorative plaster work all around and over the
building, and rising to its very summit. At that time, in the absence of
churches and chapels, for want of a better place with sufficient space
for hundreds to assemble together, the Hampshire Regiment used to have
“church parade” in the vast expanse amongst the pillars at the basement
of the Incomparable Pagoda. It was a cool, airy, comfortable place, and
open on all sides to the breeze, so that it answered very well in such a
hot climate.

There also many other meetings were held in those days of “Field
Service,” when we had all to be satisfied with such accommodation as we
could get. It was there our prayer-meetings and class-meetings were held
for the soldiers, and there, amidst that wilderness of pillars, under
that vast heathen shrine, we had the joy of directing anxious penitents
to the Saviour, and there, too, we held, in company with Major Yates of
the Royal Artillery, the first temperance meeting ever held in Mandalay.

Leaving this Bethel of ours at the basement of the Incomparable Pagoda,
and ascending by one of the fine broad flights of steps, the visitor
comes to the wooden platform of the pagoda, and on being ushered in by
the polite old abbot or presiding monk, he sees a very fine, spacious
building, very lofty, with many images of Buddha, sheltered under great
white canopies, besides some curiosities of European manufacture, such as
mirrors of vast size, and gigantic coloured glass chandeliers, that must
have been imported at immense cost.

But _the_ sight of the place is the hall which contains the marvellous
wood carvings in relief, all of Burmese workmanship, representing most
clearly all manner of sacred histories and incidents, the whole of
this elaborate and ingenious work being overlaid with gold leaf. Truly
Mandalay is a wonderful place for religious buildings.

Close beside the Incomparable Pagoda are to be seen the Ku-tho-daw or
Royal Merit pagodas, forming a unique and truly wonderful piece of work.
They consist of a triple square of sets of little white pagodas, each
of which is amply large enough to form a shrine for one large slab of
Burmese marble, which stands up in the middle, like a cemetery headstone,
enshrined each in its own neat, bell-shaped pagoda building. Each slab of
marble is covered completely with a most accurately executed inscription
in the Pali language, in letters about three-eighths of an inch in
length. I have never counted these pagodas, but I am told by those who
have that there are 730 of them in all. They are arranged in perfect
symmetry, forming three squares one within another, each square being
surrounded by a wall with handsomely carved gates. In the centre of the
innermost square is a large pagoda, and ascending the steps of that the
spectator can obtain a good view of the whole, extending over many acres
of ground. The whole space between the rows of pagodas is carefully paved
with bricks. Every part of the work has been most thoroughly carried
out, utterly regardless of expense, and everything is of the best. There
is no crowding, but ample space is given everywhere. Is there to be
found anywhere or in any religion a more striking, impressive and unique
example of thoughtful devotion and loving care of those writings supposed
to contain the sacred truth? These 730 pagodas contain 730 tables of
stone covered with inscriptions, and it is considered to be the best
edition extant of the text of the three Pitakahs, and the three Pitakahs
are the scriptures of Buddhism, acknowledged as authoritative wherever
Buddhism is the people’s faith.

Close by the Ku-tho-daw we found another marvel. In a tall brick building
is an immense marble sitting figure of Buddha, 25 feet high, scores of
tons in weight, and thought to be perhaps the largest monolith in the
world.

But it is time we returned to the three men who, after a long, hot and
tiring day in the dusty streets of Mandalay, had taken refuge in the
little monastery, and were preparing to pass the night. Though little was
said about it, we were well aware that we ran some risks in being there
at that time. Upper Burma was still in the throes of the revolution which
had taken place, and life and property were unsafe. Any day a rising
might take place. We were practically in an enemy’s country. The military
were then, and for more than a year after, on the footing of a Field
Force, and had constantly to patrol the country in small columns, and to
go in all directions in pursuit of dacoits. Conflicts with dacoits were
of daily occurrence, and bulletins were published daily by the military
authorities describing what took place.

With all this military and police activity there were still bands of
dacoits of considerable numbers; crimes of violence and dacoit raids were
constantly taking place, often with circumstances of revolting cruelty
and outrage. The state of the country was such that English ladies and
children were in official circles forbidden to come to live in Upper
Burma, and in unofficial circles dissuaded from it as much as possible;
the authorities could not undertake to protect them. No Englishman was
allowed then, and for two years after that time, to travel outside
the towns without military escort. Those were days when everybody who
possessed a revolver kept it handy in case he should need to defend
himself, and Government was glad to supply to every Englishman in the
country a rifle and ammunition to be ready in case of need.

Under these circumstances, with so much that was new and strange, it is
not much to wonder at if we committed ourselves that night to Divine
protection with more than usual fervency of petition. Our monastery was
not built to meet such an emergency, and had no proper fastenings to the
doors. Our carnal weapons consisted of one revolver and several stout
bamboos, which having disposed to the best advantage, we lay down on our
camp beds, and rested as well as the circumstances permitted.

Happily this state of things has now passed away, and Upper Burma is as
quiet as any other part of our Eastern possessions. During the few days
Mr. Brown remained with us in Mandalay we came to the conclusion that
this city, from its size and population (about ten times as large as any
other town in Upper Burma), and from its general importance, was by far
the best place to fix upon for the headquarters of the mission. Having
settled this point, we reported to the committee in London accordingly,
and Mr. Brown returned to Calcutta. After spending a fortnight in our
monastery we found that, as it was on the extreme east of the town and a
couple of miles from the centre, it was a very inconvenient place to live
in. We therefore moved to a more central position, and rented for the
time being a house belonging to an elderly Italian, who had been settled
in Mandalay for many years as a weaver of velvet in the service of the
king. Here we lived for a period of a year, by which time the new mission
house was built, and we removed to our permanent quarters.




CHAPTER III.

_MANDALAY IN 1887._


It was with feelings of no common interest that we disembarked from
the steamer at Mandalay, and took our first glimpse of the place. The
bustle of so many passengers disembarking created a very busy scene, and
dense clouds of dust arose, so that we were glad to get away as soon as
possible. We proceeded to charter one of the conveyances we found there
waiting for hire, a peculiar kind of vehicle, resembling in size and
appearance a dog kennel set on a pair of high wheels, and it proved a
marvel of inconvenience. You climb up with difficulty, thrust yourself
through the small aperture as best you can, for it is no easy matter, and
then you stow yourself away, sitting down on the floor of the conveyance
with your knees about your ears. It is quite impossible to preserve a
dignified demeanour in one of these bullock gharries, and yet, sad to
relate, it was found that this was the only kind of conveyance available
for His Majesty the King, when he was removed from the palace to the
river on his way to India.

The matter created quite a difficulty. To have mounted the king on such
an occasion on a horse or an elephant would have been cruel mockery. At
that time there were no horse gharries in Mandalay. They brought a dhooly
first, but the king declined point blank to enter it. The bullock gharry
was the best arrangement they could devise.

One of the first things that attracted our attention was the inordinately
gorgeous appearance of some things, and the very primitive and mean
condition of others. This mixture of grandeur and shabbiness is quite
an Oriental trait. The royal city and palace, the pagodas and the
monasteries, were most sumptuous in style of building and decoration,
but everything else looked very poor in comparison. The bamboo houses
of the people looked small and frail and cheap. The roads, which we
consider amongst the first essentials of civilised life, were as bad as
they could be. They were of mere mud, which became dust several inches
deep in dry weather, and a quagmire when it rained. The dense clouds of
dust that rose wherever there was much traffic formed an experience truly
distressing.

Mandalay has been said to be remarkable for three things, Phoongyees,
Pagodas and Pariah dogs. The phoongyees are the brethren of the yellow
robe, the Buddhist monks, who are to be seen in Mandalay by thousands,
and all through the country in like proportion to the population. The
pagodas form here as everywhere in Upper Burma a feature in every
landscape. The pariah dogs are uncommonly numerous. You might guess at
once you were in a Buddhist country from the thousands of homeless, poor,
emaciated, mangy creatures, nobody’s dogs, that roam over the city,
eating anything they can pick up, the vilest refuse, and acting as the
scavengers of the place. They are never on any consideration killed by
the Buddhists, but suffered to multiply to any extent. As you walk about
you often come upon eight or ten of these dogs at a time, and they seem
as if they would tear you to pieces; but though they seem so savage and
so numerous they prefer to keep at a safe distance.

Passing through the streets of the town, a drive of about two miles
brought us to the moat outside the walls of the royal city. The city is
in the form of a square, each face of which is over a mile in extent, and
is surrounded by an enormous brick wall twenty-six feet high, many feet
in thickness, and with battlements on the top. Outside the city walls
is a broad open space of ground all the way round, and outside of that
is a deep, broad moat, intended to serve the double purpose of military
defence for the city, and of supplying drinking water to the inhabitants.

For the purpose of communicating between the city and the town outside
are five gateways, two on the townward or west side, and one on each of
the others, with gates of enormous size and strength. Over each gate is a
lofty and handsome tower built of teak wood, and rising to a point. Here
and there along the walls at stated intervals, and facing the ends of the
streets of the town, which run at right angles to the wall, are smaller
towers of similar style, that serve to adorn the great wall of the city,
and give it quite a handsome appearance.

At the time I speak of the walled city was inhabited by a large
population of Burmans, chiefly people who had been in close connection
with the palace; but owing to the decision of Government to make this
place the military cantonment, the five thousand houses within the walls
have been all cleared out, compensation being paid according to the
value, and a very handsome cantonment has been made of it, with barracks
for European and Indian troops. As the great majority of the houses were
of teak or bamboo, this was not nearly so serious a matter as it might
seem. The cantonment is now known by the name of Fort Dufferin.

The royal palace consists of a square enclosure in the centre of the
large square city. It was at that time surrounded and defended by a
strong stockade of teak logs set on end in the ground, and inside of
that, as a second line of defence, was a strong brick wall; but both
stockade and wall have since been removed by the British as unnecessary.
Passing inside these two defences, the visitor found himself in the
spacious grounds of the palace, part of which were prettily laid out as
gardens, with artificial canals of water, rockeries and summer houses.
Part of this space was devoted to the king’s arsenal; on the eastern side
were the treasury and the mint.

In the centre of all, raised on an earthen platform about eight feet
high, and pretty well covering an area of perhaps a couple of acres with
a miscellaneous and irregular collection of handsome lofty buildings,
with much carving in teak, and abundance of the inevitable gold leaf,
is the royal palace of the kings of Burma. Some of the buildings are
of brick, but the majority are of teak. There is something decidedly
impressive, unique and highly interesting about the palace, as a specimen
of an Oriental monarch’s residence, but from a European standpoint it is
wanting in unity of design and symmetry of arrangement. The buildings are
so huddled together that they lose much of their appearance, and you have
to find your way about among these fine buildings by queer narrow little
lanes and wooden platforms, and by many sudden and unexpected turns, that
to a Western mind take off considerably from the majesty of the place.
But then we must remember the character of the Burmese court, notorious
for back-stairs influence, corruption, intrigue, conspiracy and the like.
That being so, it is only natural that the palace buildings should allow
proper facilities for the same, and be in keeping with it.

[Illustration: ONE OF THE GATEWAYS OF THE ROYAL CITY OF MANDALAY]

The only approach to anything like the dignity of a palace from our point
of view is the front or eastern side, where there is the throne room or
audience hall, surmounted with the great spire which rises roof over roof
to a considerable height and almost to a point, terminating with the
usual gilt umbrella. This was considered to be the centre of the universe
by the Burman courtiers, and it is still facetiously called by that name
by the English. It was here that the king used to appear on his throne
on special occasions. It is said that King Mindohn, the father of King
Theebaw, used to gaze at his people from his throne through a pair of
binoculars. The people would all be down on their knees in his presence,
and not only on their knees, but crouching on their elbows too, for that
is the attitude for special reverence in Burma.

There was one point of contention between the English and this very
haughty and conceited Court of Burma that never was settled. That was the
reception of our envoy. It was not sufficient for them that he observed
all the forms of respect known in European etiquette, but they required
from him also their own, even to the removal of his boots in the king’s
presence. Now an English gentleman does not like to doff his boots in
public, and to a military man it would seem particularly outrageous to
expect it of him. Hence it was a difficulty. Had King Theebaw accepted
instead of rejecting our ultimatum in November 1886, he might have kept
his throne and his palace; but the proper reception of the British
Resident would have been one of the articles he would have had to agree
to.

It was in the great throne room that we held at first our Sunday morning
parade services for the troops, the preacher taking his stand just by the
foot of the throne: an interesting circumstance, and not without a touch
of romance,—the Kingdom of Jesus Christ set up on the final downfall of
this antiquated, corrupt and cruel Oriental despotism. But though we may
hopefully take this as a figure and prophecy of the triumph yet to come,
the fact itself is a political rather than a religious one, and indicates
just this, and nothing more—that Britain has conquered Burma, and is now
able to do what she likes with Burma’s most sacred and venerated places.
We are not for that reason one inch nearer the real spiritual triumph of
Jesus Christ in the hearts of the Buddhists of Burma. That work is but
just begun.

Some idea of the large extent of the palace buildings may be gathered
from the fact that for many months they provided dwellings for the
general and his numerous headquarters staff, and for many other officers,
besides barracks for an entire battery of artillery, officers and men. In
addition to this, quite a number of departments, civil and military, had
their offices there, including a postal and telegraph department.

Near the front of the palace is the great tower, now used as a fire
look-out station. On the top of this a native sentry is always on the
watch, and the moment he sees a fire anywhere, either in the cantonment
or in the town, he gives the alarm, and the fire-engines are soon on
the spot. This is a matter of no small importance in this great city of
188,000 inhabitants, where the houses are of such a highly inflammable
material as bamboo, and where in one year 35 fires occurred, destroying 9
monasteries and 724 houses, of the total value of 310,000 rupees.

Close by the front of the palace was the residence of the famous Lord
White Elephant, to whom royal honours were paid. He was regarded as the
king of elephants, and therefore none but the king could mount him. His
trappings were of the most sumptuous and valuable description—silk and
rich cloth, ornamented with gold, rubies and emeralds. All his vessels
and utensils were made of gold. None but the king and the white elephant
might enjoy the dignity of the white umbrella, for that is the chief
emblem of royalty. This august quadruped had his own retinue specially
told off to do him service; his attendants and all visitors took off
their shoes when they entered his quarters, and the people bowed and did
obeisance when he passed through the streets. Not that he was white. No
elephant is anything near a white colour; but besides the lighter colour
of the animal there are other tests which, according to the Burmese
science on the subject, settle the matter of a white elephant; and it
is a science of considerable gravity and importance. He must have five
toe nails on his hind feet instead of the usual four; and when water is
poured upon him, if he is a true albino, he will turn red and not black.

The reason why so much superstitious and absurd reverence was paid to
the white elephant was that the possession of an undoubted specimen was
supposed to be a sign and symbol of universal sovereignty, so that it was
deemed very lucky for the King of Burma to possess one. In the sixteenth
century the kingdoms of Pegu and Siam fought over one for many years,
till five successive kings and thousands of men were killed, which shows
the importance attached to this possession by both nations. How often
nations have fought over that which was only a white elephant when they
had gained it!

It was a singular coincidence that within a few days of the capture of
Mandalay the white elephant died, and was buried with some display, the
troops being turned out on the occasion. It was as well he did die,
for had he lived he would have been to the English a veritable _white
elephant_ in the English colloquial sense of that term. We can come quite
as near to universal sovereignty as we wish to be, or as is good for us,
without the magic aid of a white elephant.

The principal building to the front of the palace, and just within the
stockade, is the Hloot Daw, a fine large hall where the four chief
ministers of state, with their subordinates, used to meet for the
transaction of their business. After the annexation in 1886, there was
an attempt made to govern through the medium of the Hloot Daw, but it
turned out a failure. These high Burmese officials, it was found, needed
to learn the very A B C of honest, fair and disinterested administration,
and as they were too old to learn they were pensioned off.

Altogether apart from the great walled royal city, now Fort Dufferin, was
the still greater town of Mandalay. It is now constituted a municipality;
but in Burmese times, when the city was all in all, it was merely in
Burmese phrase the Anouk-pyin, _i.e._, the western suburbs. The town
of Mandalay lies, more or less, on all the four sides of the city, but
mostly on the west, filling on that side all the space between the city
and the river, and from north to south extending five or six miles. The
Mandalay municipality covers, more or less densely, an area of eighteen
square miles. Some portions of that space are thinly populated, and a
very little of it is under cultivation as fields and gardens; but most
part of it is pretty well studded with houses, and some of it densely
populated, so that it is a very large city. It is uncommonly well laid
out. The streets are straight, very wide, run at right angles to each
other, and many of them are planted with shady tamarind trees. Some
of the streets are now metalled and made serviceable for traffic, but
five years ago, though so well planned and broad, they were in a most
deplorable state; and those of us who look back to that time have amusing
recollections of the straits we were put to in order to get about in the
rainy season.

The southern end of Mandalay touches the northern limit of Amarapoora,
which was the capital up to 1860. Here are to be seen the remains of a
great royal city nearly as large as that at Mandalay, and after the same
model exactly,—square; set so as to face the four cardinal points; the
ruins of a great wall around; a deep moat outside, now dry; the palace in
the centre; pagodas and other sacred buildings here and there, scattered
over the place; and everywhere broken bricks strewn about; some of the
ground now cultivated, and the rest covered with dense tangled jungle;
but not a single inhabitant.

[Illustration: PART OF THE PALACE OF MANDALAY (SOUTH SIDE).]

This changing of the capital from place to place, once in a while,
seems a strange, extravagant freak on the part of the Burmese kings,
especially in such a case as this, where it involved the founding and
building of a new city only four or five miles from the existing one, and
all the people had to transfer themselves and their houses and property
as best they could at the king’s command. Superstitious fear was probably
the chief if not the sole reason for all this useless waste. There are,
within a circle of a dozen miles, four places that claim the honour of
having been sometime capitals of Burma, viz., Mandalay, Amarapoora, Ava
and Sagaing, all within little more than a century, and the three latter
all show the crumbling remnants of their former glory. There are, besides
these, other towns scattered up and down the country that have formerly
been capitals.

Sagaing, twelve miles from Mandalay, was the capital in 1762, and the
remains of the city wall are still to be seen. Amarapoora was founded in
1783. In 1822 it was almost totally destroyed by fire. It is said, too,
that a vulture alighting on the royal spire of the palace caused great
uneasiness to the king. The court astrologers were summoned to explain
this omen. As, in their estimation, it foreshadowed evil, a new palace
was built at Ava, and the capital was removed there in 1823, but only
remained there till 1837. Those of us who are now in middle life will
remember learning in our geography, “Burma, capital Ava,” whereas this
fugitive capital, though it appeared so in our school books, had long
before our day left Ava and gone back to Amarapoora, where it remained
till 1860, when the king and his court made their last removal to
Mandalay.

One thing is clear: the country that can afford to gratify its
superstitious fear of omens in this spendthrift way, lightly undertaking
to build a new capital every now and then, and whilst sparing so much
on pagodas, monasteries, monks and other works of merit, yet look so
plump and well favoured as Burmans usually do, must possess considerable
sources of wealth, and there is no doubt such is the case with Burma.

Between the religious buildings and the dwellings of the people the
contrast is great, but it was greater in Burmese times than it is now. It
was very significant indeed to observe the rage for building brick houses
that took place in Mandalay, when once it was known for certain that
the Burmese Government was no more, and that it was to be the English
Government henceforth; and equally instructive was it to observe how
the value of property went up by leaps and bounds. One needs no better
proof than that of the reputation British rule enjoys even in the remote
East, and of the enlivening touch it gives to commerce and all that is
free and enterprising. And how the natives of India of different races
flocked into the upper province after the annexation! They knew what
British rule was in India, even though many of them knew not a word of
English. Even the Upper Burmans, who were quite new to our government,
seemed at once to enter into the spirit of the change that had come. The
sumptuary laws were removed, of course, now the king was gone; that is,
such laws as regulated to a nicety what style of house a man might build,
and what kind of an umbrella and how many of them he might carry on state
occasions; and the Burmans who had money now no longer feared that if
they let it be known they would have to part with it. Hence, for various
reasons, the building of substantial brick houses went on at a great
rate, and almost all the brick houses now seen in Mandalay were built at
that time.




CHAPTER IV.

_THE PEOPLE OF MANDALAY._


Mandalay is very cosmopolitan. As with many cities in the East, the
modern facilities for travel and the prospects of business have brought
together people of many nations and tongues. As regards the Burmans
themselves, who of course are the great majority of the inhabitants,
future chapters will afford opportunities for describing them. It is
rather of the multifarious foreign element of the population that I wish
now to speak.

In the streets of Mandalay it is no uncommon thing to see a people
evidently of the Mongolian type, and not unlike the Burmans in
appearance, but slightly different in features, different in language,
and in dress. These are the Shans, the inhabitants of the elevated
country to the east of Upper Burma—a fine country by all accounts, and
likely to grow greatly in prosperity and to attract population, now
that it has come under firm and settled rule. They are distinguishable
by their dark, baggy trousers in place of the Burmese loin cloth, by
the very large pliable straw sun-hats which they wear, and by a larger
amount of tattooing on the body than is usual with the Burmans. The
Shans are great gardeners and great traders. Caravans of pack bullocks
loaded with produce from the Shan Hills are frequently seen coming into
Mandalay, accompanied by Shans armed to the teeth, as well as men on foot
carrying loads; and now that the land has rest from incessant tribal
war and dacoity, this trade is on the increase. In 1888-89, according
to Government returns, the number of laden bullocks was 27,170, and the
value of the goods 730,279 rupees; nearly double the returns of the
previous year. The Shans, after disposing of their loads, purchase in the
bazaar goods of European manufacture for the return journey. A few Shans
are permanently resident in Mandalay.

There were scarcely any English people in Upper Burma, especially during
the reign of King Theebaw; but now, of course, they are the leading
race, and are to be found in all the highest posts. In addition to those
belonging to the army, the leading civilians and officials of Government
are English gentlemen; and to them is committed the control of the
revenue, the administration of justice, the police, the Departments of
Public Works and of Survey; whilst some are there in business of their
own, and others find employment under the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company as
officers or engineers on board the river steamers.

The Eurasian element—_i.e._, of mixed descent, European and Asian—is
of course also to be found, some having come over from India, others
belonging to Burma, and they mostly find employment as clerks or in some
similar capacity. French, Italians and Greeks were there before we were,
and some of these nationalities found employment in various capacities in
the service of the king.

The Armenians are a small but very respectable class. They are similar in
dress and habits to Europeans, and speak English. Many of their number
are to be found in Calcutta also, and in Rangoon, quite settled and
domiciled in the East. In Mandalay they have a church of their own, and
the priests of the Greek Church, to which they belong, pay occasional
visits.

Of Parsees we have a few; and here, as in their native place about
Bombay, they are an enlightened and very respectable people in good
positions.

There is quite a numerous section of the population belonging to the
Zarabadee community, as they are called. They are half-caste Mahomedans,
the descendants of Mahomedans from India settled in Mandalay, by Burmese
mothers. They supply an interesting example of the growth of a religious
community merely by the natural process, and apart from proselytising
efforts, when the natural increase of numbers is all absorbed by that
religious community. They are Mahomedan in religion, but largely Burman
in dress and appearance. They speak Hindustanee and Burmese.

[Illustration: “THE SHANS ARE DISTINGUISHABLE BY THEIR DARK, BAGGY
TROUSERS, AND THE VERY LARGE PLIABLE STRAW SUN-HATS THEY WEAR.”]

There is a class of people called Kathays about whom there appears to be
some special interest. They are the descendants of people from Manipur,
brought over formerly as the result of some conquest by the Burmans, and
long since settled in the capital. Their condition, at least as it was
originally, reminds one of the exile of the Jews in Babylon. They have
a language and religion of their own, but speak Burmese too. They are
a peaceable and industrious community, mostly employed in weaving the
pretty, bright-coloured, figured silk cloths worn by the Burmese women.

Another class not native, but long resident in Upper Burma, are the
Ponnâs or Brahmins from Manipur. To one accustomed to meet with that
caste in India they look very degenerate, and although they still wear
the sacred Brahmin thread over the shoulder as in India, they seem to
have become very much less fastidious about mixing with other castes than
their brethren of the great continent. They seem to enjoy a position of
considerable standing and influence in the country of their adoption, and
gain a good livelihood by the two apparently not very kindred occupations
of dairy-keeping and fortune-telling. It is their reputation for the
latter that gains them their position of importance with a light-hearted,
casual and very superstitious people like the Burmans. This soothsaying
seems to be quite a recognised function, that makes the Ponnâ welcome
throughout Burmese society, and nowhere more so than at court. In their
literature, the Ponnâ constantly figures as an honoured and indispensable
personage at the palace, whose business it is to study the stars, consult
the horoscopes, make known lucky days, and, in fact, decide the thousand
and one important affairs of life wherein the Burman considers it
necessary to appeal to the occult.

Coming now to the mercantile classes, we have some interesting specimens.
First, the Suratees, keen business men, merchants and shopkeepers, men
capable of large transactions, Mahomedans in religion, Oriental in dress.
The leading member of this community in Upper Burma, a very wealthy man,
did a good deal of financing for the king, and no doubt made it pay well.
When the downfall of the Burman kingdom took place he came to no harm.
Amongst other transactions he was the lessee of the Great Bazaar, and
as the lease had still some years to run, he continued to hold it, and
profited greatly by the enormously improved trade.

The Marwarees are another class of traders hailing from India. They are
Hindus from Gujerat, wholesale dealers in piece goods, and very smart
business men.

The Moguls are Mahomedans from Persia, with a complexion almost as fair
as a European’s. They are the only people of all the many nationalities
I have met with in the East who dress exactly like the pictures that
are drawn of Bible scenes and characters. The special shape and size of
turban, and the long loose outer garment some of them wear, put one in
mind of the pictures exactly.

A cosmopolitan place would be incomplete without some Jews. We have them
in Mandalay of various nationalities, European and Oriental, and they
seem to be all shopkeepers. One firm hail from Baghdad, very near the
dwelling-place of our first parents, and speak a vernacular which they
call Hebrew.

The principal native bankers are the Hindu Chetties from the Madras
Presidency. They are a remarkable class of people, very wealthy, very
keen at business, men of their word in all transactions, being fully
alive to the value of keeping their credit by an unstained reputation in
finances; and if one firm of their community find it difficult to make
their payments, the rest of the Chetty firms will usually come to their
help, to save the reputation of the whole. Yet with all this they dress,
eat and live as if they had a very meagre income, and have the appearance
of mere savages. The vast array of naked skin they show is almost
black in complexion, and they have almost no education beyond the bare
necessities of finance. Their food is of the simplest; their houses, all
on the two sides of one street to be near each other, are substantially
built to protect them from thieves, but almost devoid of all furniture.
They are not negligent of religion, for as soon as they came they
secured land and built a Hindu temple. Their dress, consisting of two
pieces of thin white cotton cloth, one round the waist and the other
loosely thrown over one shoulder, could be bought for three-and-sixpence;
the closely shaven head has no covering, and the feet none. Such is the
Tamil Chetty, the very last man in all Mandalay you would take for a
wealthy money-lender; but he is in great request with the improvident
Burmans who possess any property upon which it is possible to borrow. The
Chetties came over to Mandalay when the country was annexed; their keen
business instincts telling them two things—one, that there would now be
plenty of business doing; the other, that it would now be safe to come
and do it. The prospects of those who get into their clutches are not
bright. The price of money is very high in the East. The late Earl of
Beaconsfield speaks somewhere of “the sweet simplicity of the three per
cents,” but the Tamil Chetty considers twenty-five per cent. per annum
much simpler.

Leaving the mercantile and moneyed classes, and coming to the rank and
file, there are in Mandalay some thousands of natives from many different
parts of India, speaking many languages, and engaging in a great variety
of callings. Europeans often think of India as a country, but it is
really a continent, and has as great, if not a far greater, variety of
peoples and tribes than Europe presents. There is the Bengalee Baboo,
probably a clerk, the Hindustanee doorkeeper or messenger, the Tamil
overseer or coolie. Even in our Sepoy army in Mandalay one sees great
variety. There is the tall hardy Punjabee, the wild Pathan and the still
wilder Beloochee. There is the jolly stout little Goorkha, who stands in
such good repute as a fighting man; the somewhat weedy-looking Madrassee,
whose name does not rank high for valour; and there is the brave,
fierce-looking Sikh, with a national-religious scruple against cutting
his hair, who curls the two ends of his beard up round his two ears when
it becomes too long to hang down. What tact it must require to mould
out of these diverse elements “the finest body of disciplined Asiatic
troops in existence,” and yet we are told, and it is true, that the real
strength and safety of our Indian Sepoy army lies in the judicious
blending and balancing of these diverse elements, a lesson which the
great mutiny unmistakably taught us.

We depend very much upon Indians for the supplying of our wants in Burma.
The butcher, the baker, the washerman, the cook, the railway porter, the
writer, the messenger, the soldier, the cabman, the postman, the farrier,
the sweetmeat vendor, the sweeper, are in almost all instances natives of
India, for the easy-going Burman lets all these employments slip past him.

The place is quite a Babel for languages. The names of the stations on
the railway indicate the polyglot character of the population. It is of
course out of the question to attempt to represent even the half of the
tongues commonly spoken, but they select the five which we may presume
are in most common use, English, Burmese, Hindustanee, Hindi and Tamil,
and the name of the station is painted in all these.

The Chinese in Burma are worthy of special mention as forming an
important community in every great centre of population. In Mandalay
they are numerous, occupying almost entirely both sides of one long
street, called after them China Street, as well as other localities in
the town. They seem to settle down and marry Burmese women and live very
happily. They are keener business men than the Burmans, more knowing,
more enterprising, more persevering, more industrious. The Burman is as
good at carpentry as he is at anything; that is, in fact, one of his
strongest points, but John Chinaman ousts him completely at that. Leaving
the little petty carpentry to the Burmans, he carries all before him in
large building contracts. Though John’s rates are higher he does the work
better, and what is important to the English mind, he finishes the work
in the time stated. Some of the Chinese are shopkeepers. Whilst many
Chinamen are thus a boon to the country, and valued as a useful class of
workers, others again do much mischief, corrupting the people wherever
they go—keeping liquor shops, diligently spreading the opium-smoking
habit, and pandering to the natural love of the Burmans for gambling.
The offenders against the excise laws—cunning secreters and workers of
illicit stills—are usually Chinese.

With the mention of so many different nationalities of foreigners in the
place, it will at once occur to the reader that the carrying on of all
kinds of work and business depends very largely upon the foreigners and
very little upon the Burmans. That is true. Somehow the Burmans, though
they are in Mandalay considerably over 100,000 strong, and multitudes
of them are very poor, fail to take up very many of the duties of life
and the needs of society, and allow themselves to be ousted in many
employments by immigrants from other countries where the conditions of
life have taught them to bestir themselves. The Burman is easy-going,
casual and satisfied with a little. When a great increase of the
population of Burma has rendered the struggle for existence much more
urgent than it is now, the Burman will either have to bestir himself or
go to the wall.




CHAPTER V.

_THE PACIFICATION OF UPPER BURMA._


It has already been stated that Upper Burma, at the time of the
annexation, and for some time after, was politically and socially in a
state of serious disturbance and disorder. It may be well to inquire a
little more closely into this matter, that we may the better understand
the circumstances of the country as we found it, and the better
appreciate what has been done by way of remedy.

A state of disturbance was, under the circumstances, inevitable. An
invasion, followed by an annexation, is seldom a very quiet and peaceable
process, and this was no exception. But in this case there were features
that greatly complicated the matter, and made the task of pacifying and
governing much harder. When the expedition under General Prendergast
went up the Irrawaddy at the close of 1885 it was an easy victory, and
there was no resistance worth mentioning. Mandalay, the capital, yielded
without a blow. This easy conquest proved the inefficiency of the Burmans
as a Government, and led to the belief that very little trouble would be
experienced in governing the country. But this proved to be by no means
the case. For four years it has been one constant and strenuous battle
with the forces of disorder; and whatever has been done in the way of
pacification and improvement of the country has been done in the teeth of
difficulties of no ordinary character.

If the question be asked how it was that the country was so easy to
conquer yet so difficult to pacify and restore to order, the answer
is not far to seek. In the first place, the weaker a Government is
the stronger are the elements of crime and disorder lurking about, and
having overthrown the one you still have to reckon with the other. King
Theebaw’s was a weak Government, and crime and disorder had increased so
much that their reduction had become a formidable task.

The territory over which King Theebaw ruled, or professed to rule, was
of immense extent, and very sparsely populated, and the vast tracts of
jungle with hilly, broken country afforded ample cover for the numerous
bands of dacoits. Dacoity is the word used in India for gang robbery,
and it is usually accompanied with murder and various forms of cruelty.
It had always flourished in Upper Burma, and was unfortunately regarded
not as a cruel, brutal and detestable crime, to be put down by the united
efforts of the government and the people, but more as an acknowledged and
unavoidable institution.

We may find some parallels to this in brigandage in Southern Europe,
in the Border warfare so well described by Sir Walter Scott, and in
the state of things prevailing formerly in the West of England, as set
forth in _Lorna Doone_. The dacoit leaders were a kind of privileged
freebooters, who spared those who paid blackmail, and wreaked their
vengeance on others, and there was, in the opinion of the people, some
air of romance about the life. No Burmese Government had ever been strong
enough or resolute enough effectually to stamp out this plague. When the
English took the reins of government at the annexation, this naturally
gave a fresh impulse to dacoity under the notion of patriotism; and for
some time the leaders who had large gangs occasionally tried conclusions
with the small columns of police and military sent out to patrol the
country.

The Government official report of affairs in Upper Burma gives the
following summary of the first year’s work of pacification, viz., up to
the end of 1886.

“The pacification of the country has been a prolonged work of much
difficulty. Dacoity on the largest scale has been rampant; and military
operations have been necessary in almost every part of the country in
order to suppress it. To the end of the year 1886 about 180 encounters
had taken place with these lawless bands. They seldom offered serious
resistance, except when fighting in bush or jungle. The loss they caused
to the British troops between November 17th, 1885, and October 31st,
1886, amounted to 11 officers and 80 men, killed or died from wounds.
But greater difficulties than the armed opposition were found in the
dense jungle, the want of roads, and the unfavourable, in some cases
deadly, climate. The result of these difficulties during the period above
mentioned was a total loss of 3,053 officers and men, who died from
disease or had to be invalided. The average number of troops employed
in Upper Burma during 1886 has been 14,000, but at the end of 1886 the
number in the country was 25,000.”

So deep-rooted is the habit of dacoity in Burma that it easily breaks out
afresh whenever disorder spreads, or whenever any daring fellow thinks
fit to try his luck as a _boh_ or leader. The people are easily deluded
with his boast and swagger; and having implicit faith in the special
tattooing and charms which are warranted to render them bullet and sword
proof, they readily follow his standard. Hundreds of _bohs_ have had
their day during the last five years, and pursued a successful course of
robbery, murder and rebellion for months together, eluding the police and
the military. But owing to the tenacity of purpose, and the inexhaustible
resources of the British Government, they have to succumb in the end.
Many have been killed or taken prisoners in engagements fought; others
treacherously murdered by their own followers, to get the reward set on
the head of the notorious outlaw; others, after months of a hunted life
in the jungles, have come in and surrendered. There has been always ample
opportunity given by the British for those who wished to abandon that bad
way of life to do so, and more than once a free pardon has been offered
to all those who might give themselves up, provided that they had not
been guilty of murder. Many, from time to time, have availed themselves
of that arrangement.

[Illustration: DACOITS IN PRISON, WITH INDIAN SEPOY GUARD.]

Several princes—in Burma princes are fairly plentiful, notwithstanding
that so many were massacred by order of King Theebaw—have tried their
hands at it, with vague ideas of getting the mastery of the country in
due time. One, known by the title of the Sekkya Prince, established
himself in the hill country about Kyaukse, only thirty miles from
Mandalay, and as late as 1889 gave an immense amount of trouble, setting
the military police at defiance for months, and committing many murders
and depredations. He had an armed following of several hundreds, and
several fights took place between them and the police. Though the dacoits
were each time defeated and scattered, the ground was so difficult for
pursuit, that they could never catch the leader. At length he was taken
in the Shan States, brought to Kyaukse, tried, convicted and hanged. This
is a specimen of the kind of guerilla warfare going on in every district
all over the country at that time.

Another matter, which still further complicated the situation and gave
strength to the forces of disorder, was the sanction which dacoity had
received through the corruption of those high in office in the Burman
Government before we took it over. A British civil officer of high rank,
the commissioner of a division, writes as follows, as late as the middle
of 1889, more than three years after the annexation:—

“The task of reducing my own division to order I find a gigantic one. The
Burman nature is simply saturated with lawlessness, and it takes the form
of dacoity. Since King Mindohn’s death [_i.e._, from the accession of
King Theebaw in 1878] it is a fact that most of the official classes in
Upper Burma made large incomes by dacoity. Men high in office in Mandalay
actually kept dacoit _bohs_, and shared with them loot, or the subsidies
which were paid by the villagers for protection from other dacoits. The
dacoit _bohs_ were actually the governors, and paid some of the mingyees
[ministers of state] in Mandalay regular sums, on condition of being let
alone! Each _boh_ had a large immediate gang or body of men around him,
and a militia at any time available from the villages. We have had to
break up this system of _boh_ government all over Upper Burma, a system
which had been running for the last ten years. The villagers themselves
have become so accustomed to the government by dacoit chiefs, that they
are actually afraid and even unwilling to help in getting rid of them. It
will be admitted that difficulties like these are enormous; sometimes
they seem to be insuperable, and one is often inclined to despair. We
have not only to deal with the thousands of lawless ones who think we
are encroaching upon their rights, but we have to try and educate the
people to believe that these dacoits are not their rulers, and are not to
be so. The villagers do not yet realise this, and it is this process of
education, slow and painful, that impedes us so terribly in the work of
subjugation and pacification. But the progress made has been very great.”

The following is given as a specimen of the encounters which for the
first two or three years were of constant occurrence. This affair was
perhaps exceptional in the amount of resistance offered, but in other
respects quite usual and ordinary. It is quoted from a newspaper dated
May 1888:—

“On the night of the 21st inst. 400 dacoits, principally Shans, with
people from Mogaung district, under the leadership of Boh Ti, took up a
position outside Mogaung. Lieutenant O’Donnell, Battalion Commandant,
and Lieutenant Elliot, Assistant Commissioner, with 75 Goorkha military
police, patrolled outside the fort the whole night. At 4 A.M. they
attacked the dacoits, who held a strong position in a series of pagodas,
which they had fortified during the night. The dacoits tenaciously held
the position, and the consequence was that a fierce contest ensued,
each pagoda being taken in succession. The last pagoda, when taken, was
found to be choked with dead. The Goorkha police behaved splendidly.
Our casualties were 8 killed and 15 wounded, while 49 dead dacoits were
counted, and over 100 were reported as wounded, most of whom escaped. The
struggle at the last pagoda was hand to hand over a four-foot wall, and
bayonets and spears were used. It was here that 6 out of the 8 police
killed fell.”

The mention of these fights deserves a place in any record of those
times, for it was through this hard, rough police and military work—this
continuous pounding at the mass of crime and lawlessness that would
not yield to gentler measures—that the land now enjoys peace and quiet
throughout its length and breadth. There was manifestly no other way of
quelling the disorders and curing the miseries under which the country
groaned.

This was a specimen of the fighting of our Indian military police; now
for a specimen of that of our English soldiers, who also were incessantly
employed in patrolling the country, and often met with dacoit bands. The
instance given here does not by any means stand alone; similar affairs
often occurred at that time. It illustrates the courage and dash our
men have shown throughout this very laborious and difficult campaign.
Often called to go out in very small parties, they usually carried the
day against all odds; and even when, as in this instance, they met with
such an unusual number of casualties as to debar them from getting the
victory, their coolness and presence of mind have staved off defeat and
disaster, and enabled them to get through so well that the reverse was,
considering the circumstances, as creditable as a victory would have been.

“On January 14th, 1889, information reached Lieutenant Nugent, in
charge of a small force of the Hants Regiment, that the advanced guard
of a certain rebel prince was stockaded in a village ten miles away.
He at once decided to attack. He marched out with Sergeant Bevis and
15 privates, preceded by some of the troops, such as they were, of the
Sawbwa of Momeit. On turning the corner of a jungle path, their stockade
was observed with the gate shut, and white flags (emblematic of royalty)
flying at the gate. The dacoits, on seeing our men, at once began to
blow horns and beat tomtoms. Our Burmese auxiliaries at once made off,
firing their weapons in the air. Nevertheless Lieutenant Nugent and the
16 Englishmen promptly charged the stockade, 16 against 200! When about
thirty yards from the stockade the dacoits delivered such a heavy and
well-directed volley that 8 out of the 16 were hit. Private Roberts was
killed on the spot, and Lieutenant Nugent himself was wounded. Seeing
that himself and half his party were disabled, and further assault was
out of the question, Nugent gave the order to get the wounded from under
fire and retire. It is at this point that the soldierly qualities of
these men specially appear. The few men who were able had meanwhile got
under cover of a slight inequality in the ground, and were keeping up a
fire on the stockade. While himself assisting Private James, who was
dangerously wounded, Lieutenant Nugent was again struck a little below
the left breast, this time mortally.

“Sergeant Bevis now took the command, and rallied his small party round
their fallen officer, and seeing that the dacoits, now emboldened by
observing the small number opposed to them, were coming out at the gate,
he ordered his men to fire a volley. This caused the enemy to retire
inside the stockade, and our party was molested no more. Stretchers were
improvised with rifles and bamboos for Lieutenant Nugent and Private
James, the other wounded managing to walk. The party made a halt at the
village which they had passed marching out; and here the gallant Nugent
breathed his last. By dint of much pressure and promises of reward
Sergeant Bevis obtained assistance from the Sawbwa’s troops to carry the
body and the bad cases to Momeit.”

Sergeant Bevis was much commended for his good management. He was
promoted at once, and received the decoration of the Distinguished
Service Order. Five days after a small force of Hampshire men and
military police surprised and carried the stockade.

Many were the deeds of valour in this long and trying campaign. A
considerable number of badges of the Distinguished Service Order were
awarded, and of the highest decoration for gallantry in the field that
military men can aspire to, the Victoria Cross, no less than three were
given.

After what has been said about the Burmese ministers of the Crown, it
will be no matter of surprise that the honest attempt of the British
Government to utilise the local knowledge and experience of the Hloot
Daw or supreme council of the king, as the medium of government, should
entirely break down. As might have been expected, those worthies were
found to be worse than useless at such a crisis. The kind of government
they had been accustomed to administer was just the kind that was not
wanted. They were therefore pensioned off, the pension acting in a
twofold manner, as a substantial compensation for loss of office, and as
a guarantee of their loyalty; they had something to lose.

During the first year or two of the British occupation there was need
for very special vigilance to prevent the carrying out of plots of
insurrection, especially in Mandalay. It was of course childish to think
they could dislodge the British power, but many of the people were slow
to believe this, and foolish enough to listen to boasting proposals
of this kind. However, such a good watch was kept, and the officials
kept themselves so well informed, that all such attempts were nipped
in the bud. Some idea of the magnitude of the work of pacification may
be gathered from a paper published by the Chief Commissioner of Burma
in 1889, from which it appears that no less than 363 dacoit _bohs_ or
leaders were either killed, or surrendered, or were taken prisoners
between April 1887 and August 1889.

The British Government, whilst very stern in pursuing, arresting and
punishing these notorious outlaws, made every concession towards mercy
where it was possible. When a gang of dacoits was broken up, and the
_boh_ killed or taken, the men composing it were usually allowed to
settle down in their villages, giving some sort of guarantee for their
future good behaviour. As soon as it became safe to show any considerable
leniency, the cases of all who had been sentenced to terms of penal
servitude for participating in dacoity were carefully gone through
by an experienced and able judicial commissioner, for the purpose of
remitting the punishment wherever it could safely be done, particularly
in cases where men had been led, during a time of anarchy and political
excitement, to take part in crimes and acts of violence, from which,
under ordinary circumstances, they would have abstained. The result
was that 899 prisoners were set at liberty at once, and 450 more were
promised their release in the following December if their conduct in jail
continued good. Only the worst and most desperate offenders were kept in
jail.

It is just possible that some readers, failing to realise the full force
of all the circumstances, may be inclined to think that the information
given in this chapter leans too much in the direction of admiration of
the military deeds described, and is lacking in consideration for the
case of the unfortunate men against whom these operations were directed.
I feel that it would ill become me to do anything to fan the flame of
the military spirit, for militarism is without doubt one of the great
curses of this age, and I have had no such design in view. I have merely
described what took place. If the reader feels inclined to admire any
of the actions here described, I must give him notice that he does it
entirely on his own responsibility.

It may occur to the reader that perhaps after all it was the spirit of
patriotism that animated these Burmans. Were they not fighting for their
country and their liberty, and doing their feeble best to cast out the
invader? Doubtless there was in some cases something of this feeling in
their minds, enough to give a colourable pretext to their conduct at the
time. But there are considerations that go to show that if we are to make
any allowance on this account it will have to be very little.

Dacoity existed and was rampant for years prior to our annexation of the
country.

How is the motive of patriotism to be reconciled with the gross cruelty,
and robbery, and murder which all the dacoit bands continually practised?

When so many hundreds of _bohs_ were fighting, each for his own hand,
which were we to recognise? And how many? Their claims to the mastery
were mutually antagonistic.

I have already said that I decline to take the responsibility either of
defending or of impeaching the action of England in the invasion of Upper
Burma. It involves the great and wide question of Empire, which I leave
to more competent hands. I content myself with giving the facts from
the standpoint of an eyewitness, and enabling or assisting wiser men to
settle the greater question. I take up the question at this point—England
the _de facto_ ruler. Somehow, rightfully or wrongfully, she is there,
and has undertaken the government of the country. The country is in a
flame with crime and disorder. What is she to do?

There have been times, even in our own country, when certain crimes of
violence, such as garotting, and certain forms of murder, have spread so
as to cause almost a panic, and have needed special measures both as to
detection and punishment. We are far more liable to such things in India.
Take, for instance, that strange phase of crime known as “thuggee,”
which prevailed to a fearful extent years ago in India, and to which,
in respect of each being _an epidemic form of crime_, dacoity in Burma
has sometimes been compared. Thuggee was a thoroughly organised system
of robbery and murder, carried out with great secrecy by an association
of men banded together for the purpose, and who did it not by open
assault but by stealthy approaches, and, strangest of all, with religious
motives. The verdict of civilised society was that the extermination of
the thugs was not only a justifiable thing to be done, but the solemn
duty of the Government, notwithstanding the religious motives, and
special officers of Government were deputed for that purpose, and the
system was finally stamped out.

So with dacoity. If men will be brutal, will set all law, human and
divine, at defiance, will make human life cheap and property unsafe,
and keep the whole country in terror and confusion, to the detriment of
all peace and progress, if, in short, they will come to no terms, but
deliberately elect to assume the character of wild beasts preying on
society, then all reasonable men will feel constrained sorrowfully to
admit that a civilised Government has no alternative but to treat them as
such, and hunt them down; always however remembering that, as it is in
the divine, so in the human administration, justice should be tempered
with mercy; and wherever there is room to hope for better things, the
criminal should have another chance, a provision which our Government, as
I have shown, has not neglected.




CHAPTER VI.

_BRITISH INFLUENCE IN THE SHAN STATES._


The previous chapter dealt with the pacification of Upper Burma proper,
that tract of country which England has annexed, and in which we have
assumed the full responsibility of government. In this chapter we have to
consider our relations with certain states and tribes on our frontiers,
which are not British territory, but for whose well-being and good
behaviour we hold ourselves to some extent responsible, in proportion as
our influence among them is more or less direct.

As soon as our first difficulties in the pacification and administration
of Upper Burma were to some extent overcome, our Government had to turn
its attention to the doings of the many barbarous and semi-barbarous
tribes and races in the regions immediately adjacent to Burma.

To the east of Upper Burma, and situated between that country and the
great empire of China, are the Shan States tributary to Burma, with an
area about four-fifths that of England, but with a population no larger
than that of Worcestershire, not one-fourth, it is said, of what it was
fifty years ago. This country is a very fine one, consisting of a great
plateau with a diversified climate and great natural resources, of which
coal is one, though it has not yet been worked, and with every capacity
for development. The Shan States are likely to play no unimportant part
in the commercial development of the next few years, for it is by that
route that the railway will go from Burma to China at no distant date.

At present these states are in a most backward and uncivilised condition,
and as they afford such an interesting illustration of the true frontier
policy of England in the East, and the kind of influence our country
is so well able to exert, in the discharge of her duty as the great
suzerain power amongst many little races and peoples, I make no apology
for describing it with some degree of detail. Such work as England is
attempting to do, and will in the end undoubtedly succeed in doing
there, is so beneficent and meritorious as to be beyond the possibility
of objection; and it would excite remark and applause if it were not
so common—if England were not doing much the same all over her Eastern
dominions.

The relation of the Shan States to the British rule is a feudatory
relation. They paid tribute to the King of Burma, and were supposed to
be subject to him, but although receiving tribute, Burma conferred no
benefits upon them. In fact, the idea that something in the shape of
government was due to the Shans, in return for the tribute they paid,
probably never entered the head of King Theebaw. These states have not
been annexed to British territory, and are not likely to be, unless it
should be found quite impossible to get their chiefs to learn to rule
properly. At present the policy is entirely in the direction of setting
these native rulers on their feet, and strengthening their power as
much as possible. When the English commenced to rule at Mandalay that
feudatory relation to the defunct Burmese Government passed over to the
English.

Politically the Shan States are divided amongst some eighteen chiefs,
each ruling a greater or less extent of territory. In the early part of
1888 two British expeditions were sent to the Northern and Southern Shan
States respectively, and the first steps were taken toward adjusting our
relations with them.

The condition in which the States were found by the British forces was
a very sad one. For want of a controlling power over them there was a
state of disorder amounting almost to anarchy. Might was right, and in
the struggle for mastery the Shans were fast exterminating each other.
Each petty chieftain with his followers was on the look-out to extend the
sphere of his rule by aggression, and dacoit raids and incessant civil
war were the result.

Throughout the reign of King Theebaw the States had suffered, and the
population had so seriously fallen off, by war and perhaps too by
emigration, that land had fallen out of cultivation, and prosperous towns
had been reduced, in some cases, to one-tenth of their former size. Added
to this there had been a season of scarcity, and cattle disease had been
very fatal.

The people cordially welcomed the advent of a strong power that could
enforce peace amongst them; and what was wanting for the temporal
salvation of this distressed country was just that kind of sovereignty
and paternal rule which England was able and willing to give them. It was
necessary for England to assert and maintain her rights as the suzerain
power, and to discharge her duties by taking them under the broad shield
of her protection and guidance.

The British representatives accordingly received the personal submission
of all the principal sawbwas or chiefs, confirmed them in their positions
as tributary rulers, settled their relations with Government and with
each other, fixed the amount of tribute to be paid by each chief, and
succeeded in placing the administration of the states on a satisfactory
footing. Two British officials were appointed as Superintendents of the
two divisions of the Shan States, northern and southern. Tribal disputes
were henceforth to be referred to these officials for arbitration, and
fighting between individual states was strictly forbidden. They were
not to enter into relations with any other foreign power; and they were
gradually to approximate their primitive methods of government to our
standards.

In return for these conditions, to be fulfilled by the Shans, certain
very substantial advantages were bestowed upon them by the British.
Each chieftain is recognised and protected in the exercise of his
chieftainship.

The import duties formerly levied by Burma on goods going from Shanland
into Burma are abolished, to the great advantage and encouragement of
their trade.

The great want of means of communication through the country is being
met by the construction of roads by the British Government, at its own
expense.

A preliminary survey has been made of the different routes for a railway
to run through the country, and a more accurate and detailed survey of
the one chosen is to be made shortly.

The navigation of the upper parts of the Salween River, which flows
through the Shan States, is receiving attention with the view of
utilising it for purposes of trade, if it be found practicable.

Experiments are being made under the auspices of the British in the Shan
country, in order to introduce the cultivation of new cereals and other
products amongst them, and to improve their breed of cattle and sheep.

In short, England is trying to do her duty by this naturally magnificent
but very backward country, and it may be confidently stated that if any
Government could help them on their feet it is the one they now have. The
most recent information from the Chief Superintendent of the Shan States,
the responsible British officer appointed to look after them, shows that
he finds them in a most benighted and backward condition socially and
politically, and there will be need for lengthened intervention and much
patience and perseverance on the part of the British Government. It is
found that there has been no such thing as law in the country, written
or unwritten. Everybody does what is right in his own eyes, if he can.
The hold which these chiefs have on the territories they are supposed to
rule is of the feeblest description; and it will require time for the
people to get out of that state of turbulence, unrest and distraction,
and for the rulers to acquire power and experience for civil rule. Like
incompetent rulers, they try at present to maintain their authority by
inflicting most barbarous punishments for the most trivial offences.

The Sawbwa of Thibaw is reported to be the only chief among them who
exercises any real and active control throughout his state, and he
endeavours to enforce the rule that the power of awarding capital
punishment shall be restricted to the chiefs. In all the other states
the people are fleeced by the minor officials, and criminal justice is
administered in a cruel and haphazard fashion. An English traveller
recently found the fresh head of a so-called thief posted up in the
Mangko bazaar; and in another place through which he travelled a boy of
sixteen was summarily killed and barbarously mutilated, on the ground
that he had been seen entering a buffalo shed, and was therefore supposed
to be attempting cattle-stealing.

As a beginning in the way of much-needed reform, our paternal Government
has framed for their guidance a few simple rules for the administration
of criminal justice, and supplied them to each chieftain, as a sort
of alphabet of government for them to learn. I wonder what they think
of our notions of justice. They must appear to them unaccountably and
unnecessarily lenient towards the prisoner. How it must puzzle them,
for instance, to be told that an accused person must be presumed to be
innocent until he is proved to be guilty!

As a lesson in revenue and finance, each chief is now required to
frame a simple form of budget for his state, subject to the approval
of the Superintendent, fixing the amount to be devoted to the private
expenditure of the ruling family, and making reasonable provision for the
administration of civil and criminal justice, police, and public works.
It puts one in mind of a class of boys coming up with their lessons
written out for the teacher to see; but it is evidently needed work, and
it will not do to despise the day of small things. It will of course be
a new idea to them that anybody else but the sawbwa himself has anything
to do with the expenditure of the revenue of the state, which they have
always been accustomed to consider as his private property. But Orientals
take kindly to this tutelage, and will scarcely think of resenting it,
though they might be tempted to neglect it if they could. And it must not
be supposed that this case of the Shan States is any rarity, for this
kind of inspection, instruction and guidance is only what we are called
upon to do in a greater or less degree in all the protected states which
are feudatory to our Indian Empire, and in other parts of the world.

The Chief Commissioner of Burma, to whom all the chiefs are amenable,
commenting on the above rules, endorses the opinion expressed by one of
the Superintendents, that it will probably be found impossible to effect
any real reforms until a trained Dewan (Prime Minister) is appointed for
each state to teach the rulers how to rule. As England is very resolute
in all she takes in hand in this way, perhaps in course of time some
faint sense of the responsibility of ruling may find its way into the
minds of these benighted Shan sawbwas. But if it be not so, and if in the
end England should find herself compelled, in the interests of humanity,
to take a still larger share of the responsibility of ruling in that
country, of which however there is at present no sign or mention, the
foregoing information clearly shows that it will not be for want of an
honest effort to get them to do it themselves.

All this explains incidentally how it is that Empire with its
responsibilities grows on our hands. In human affairs, when a man does
his work well, you promote him by giving him more work to do. When the
sudden emergency arises men naturally saddle the willing horse. It is so
throughout the divine economy also. “Whatsoever _thy hand findeth to do_,
do it with thy might.” “For unto every one that hath shall be given, and
he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not, even that which he
hath shall be taken away.”

Of one thing there is no doubt, the states now enjoy tranquillity and
the beginnings of prosperity such as they have not enjoyed for many
years. Not long ago, meeting a Shan who had just come to Mandalay several
days’ journey on foot through the Shan States, I asked him what was the
present condition of the country. His reply was, “So quiet, that even an
unprotected female could walk through it.”

The chieftain mentioned above with approval as an exceptional prince, and
more enlightened than his fellows, is the Sawbwa of Thibaw. He once had a
curious experience, that appears to have considerably opened his mind and
enlarged his ideas. Some years ago, before the annexation of Upper Burma
was even thought of, he paid a visit to the great city of Rangoon. Like
the Queen of Sheba, who had heard of the wisdom and glory of Solomon, he
had received tidings of the great transformation that had taken place
in that city, and wished to see the British power for himself. Possibly,
as the Shans are Buddhists, he might be inclined also to pay a visit to
the world-renowned Buddhist shrine at Rangoon, the Shwê Dagohn pagoda.
To venture so far away from his remote inland state among the mountains
shows him to be a man of some natural force of character, for most
sawbwas would have been afraid to leave their states for so long. Whilst
in Rangoon one of his retainers displeased him, and in a burst of anger
he killed him on the spot. But, unfortunately for him, this had happened
in British territory, where they call such actions, no matter who does
them, by the name of murder; and he was accordingly arrested and put in
jail to stand his trial for that crime. His plea was of course that he
was a king, and that he had the power of life and death; and seeing that
such was the case in his own territories, and that he had no idea he was
exceeding his prerogative in doing as he did, he was released, and some
good advice was given him for future use. It is gratifying to find that
this experience has borne fruit, and that years after, when in course of
things the Shan States have become tributary to Britain, and an attempt
is being made to bring them somewhat into line with more enlightened
nations, he is officially named as the most progressive and reliable of
the Shan rulers.

Other operations for the pacification of our Burmese frontiers may be
mentioned here. Amongst the barbarous and unlettered tribes on the
mountains in the north there has been a continuance of the kind of
lawlessness prevalent in the days before our rule in Upper Burma. The
tribes of wild Kachins there have given considerable trouble from time to
time. They are warlike and predatory, and in their mountains and jungles
able to offer considerable resistance.

Occasionally, too, in the north, large numbers of disbanded Chinese
soldiers have turned dacoits, and crossed the frontier into the Bhamo
district to plunder. They have, however, suffered severely whenever they
have tried conclusions with the British columns sent out against them.
Attention is being given to the delimitation of the Chinese frontier,
which will lead the way to a better protection of it on both sides. In
the east the Red Karens gave trouble, while on the west the wild Chins
of the Arakan Yoma mountains continued their former practice of raiding
into Burma and carrying off loot and captives.

[Illustration: THE GOLDEN PAGODA AT MANDALAY, COMPLETELY COVERED WITH
GOLD LEAF.]

All this had to be brought to an end, and these lawless marauders given
clearly to understand that it would no longer be permitted, but that a
power now ruled in Burma that was able to keep them in check, and would
protect the interests of its subjects against their acts of rapine and
violence. Several expeditions were undertaken for this purpose to the
different mountain tribes, and much hard, rough work had to be done;
but beyond keeping these tribes in order in relation to Burma, it is
uncertain yet what measures England will initiate for their internal
government.

In connection with these different expeditions much valuable exploration
and surveying work have been done on our frontiers, in what was formerly
an unknown country.

On the whole, it will be seen that to restore order and establish good
government, in a country like this, and under such circumstances, was
a work of gigantic difficulty, requiring much activity and vigilance,
much firmness and courage, readiness of resource, and withal a long
purse. What has been spent, however, may be regarded as capital well
laid out, that has already begun to be productive. Seldom, perhaps, has
England undertaken a heavier task so far away from home; never has she
accomplished it with more credit. Gradually, but surely, the British
talent for organising and ruling has asserted itself, and the great
resources at our command, despite the smallness of our numbers on the
spot, have materially helped to win the victory. One cannot but admire
that splendid courage, and that administrative ability, whereby our
countrymen have taken over a country of vast extent, in a condition
bordering on anarchy, and in five years, with the aid that India has
been able to give in men and means, they have made it safer and more
prosperous to live in than at any previous period of its history in
modern times.

The more extended notice of the progress made in the material development
of Upper Burma is reserved for another chapter.




CHAPTER VII.

_FIVE YEARS OF BRITISH RULE._


British rule would have nothing to justify its presence in such a country
as Burma if it did not evidently make for the well-being of the people.
In this chapter we have to consider the initiation of those measures
that have been adopted with this view, and to ascertain how far they are
likely to secure it. Five years is not a period of time from which much
can be expected by way of results, but it is long enough for us to form
an estimate of the kind of beginning that has been made.

Under Burmese rule no attempt was made at a division of the work of
the executive into departments. Each minister of state was considered
eligible to take charge of any and every post in the state, whether
judicial, revenue, military or what not, just as in England, as Macaulay
tells us, until comparatively recent times, any gentleman, if he
possessed sufficient interest, might aspire to command a man-of-war, and
naval and military commands were more or less interchangeable. But we
have got far beyond that now, and our Indian Government is a model of
efficiency and business-like working, the officers of some departments
being professionally educated for them, and in others, specially trained
for the work.

The state of the public revenue is always some test of the industrial
and fiscal conditions of a country. Beginning with the first year of
the annexation, the income for the five years has steadily and rapidly
risen:—

                                Rupees.
    In 1886-87 the revenue was 2,200,000
       1887-88    ”      ”     5,010,000
       1888-89    ”      ”     7,683,450
       1889-90    ”      ”     8,638,170
       1890-91    ”      ”     9,400,000

To the amount for the last year a considerable sum might fairly be added
on account of the earnings of the new line of railway to Mandalay. Under
the Burman king the revenue never exceeded 10,000,000 rupees, and during
King Theebaw’s reign it had fallen to 9,000,000, and fully one-third of
this amount accrued from monopolies and imposts on trade and industry,
that the British Government has very properly abolished; so that,
although we took over the country at a very great disadvantage, we have
already raised the revenue, by healthy and legitimate means (excepting
the excise), to an amount equal to what it ever was before. There can be
no doubt that a career of prosperity awaits Upper Burma, and that the
steady increase in the revenue indicates that it has already entered upon
that career. The testimony of the revenue officers is that it is, as a
rule, collected without difficulty, and that the taxation does not fall
at all heavily on the people. The chief item is a kind of capitation or
household tax, averaging 10 rupees per house per year. This is levied as
a lump sum on each village, and the payment is distributed amongst the
families of the village, according to their means and circumstances, by
a committee of village elders—a method they are accustomed to, and that
seems to work well.

The administration of justice is one of the fundamental duties of
Government and one of its chief functions. Our Government undertook this
duty amid special difficulties and drawbacks; for not only were crime and
disorder very general, but there was a great paucity of officials with
the necessary experience of the country and knowledge of the language,
to fill the subordinate grades of the Civil Service, and to act as
magistrates. It must have been no easy task to administer justice at once
over an area as large as France. Great progress has been made during the
five years, and the various courts of justice have long been in good
working order after the methods of India.

The adaptation of a regular system of criminal law, as laid down in
the Indian Penal Code, with British principles as regards evidence and
procedure, with all our well-known safeguards of the rights of the
subject and the dignity and sanctity of law, must be a great improvement
on the old haphazard Burmese system, and must afford far greater
protection to the innocent, and a greater probability of detecting
and punishing the guilty. In point of impartiality and freedom from
corruption, too, there must be a great change for the better. Since
the country has begun to thoroughly settle down, and the necessity for
a speedy and summary decision in criminal cases is no longer felt, a
Judicial Commissioner has been appointed for Upper Burma, a trained
civilian of high position and experience, whose duty it is to revise
the proceedings of the subordinate courts, and, if necessary, alter the
findings. This precaution Government takes to ensure that the cases shall
have full and mature consideration, and that in the name of justice,
justice shall be done.

An illustration of the improved methods of legal procedure, after Western
models, introduced under the British administration, is the compulsory
registration of deeds relating to immovable property. This measure
operates to prevent fraud and secure and simplify titles. The deed being
registered, and a copy of it being kept in Government records, forgery
and other methods of cheating are made far more difficult. Under the
Burman rule deeds were not used, the theory being that all property
belonged to the king. It can readily be imagined what confusion of title
resulted from that primitive method, and how necessary it was to make
enactments that should minimise the risk of fraud, dispute and litigation.

The survey of the whole country has made good progress. Year by year,
despite the disturbed state of the country, and the consequent danger
of travelling, survey parties have been diligently employed in that
important business. Triangulation has been carried over 84,000 square
miles, and the whole country has been mapped on a scale of four miles to
the inch.

Experimental farming is, in Upper Burma, a new undertaking which
necessarily falls to the lot of Government, in the absence of the
requisite knowledge and enterprise on the part of the people. With a view
to increasing the products of the country, and bettering the position of
the people, an experimental farm has been established in the Shan States.
Various products, new to Burma, are receiving a trial; for instance,
English fruit trees on some of the hill stations, and at various other
places potatoes, American maize, wheat, barley, and English garden
vegetables. The successful introduction of some of these new products
may mean a great deal for the prosperity of the country. Attention has
also been paid to the rearing of cattle, sheep and horses, and veterinary
assistants are employed, at the expense of Government, in combating
cattle disease, and their work has given satisfaction to the people.

There is no branch of the public service for which there is more need
in a new country than that of the Department of Public Works. A country
recently come under British rule presents a wide field for the talents
and energies of the civil engineer. The principal public works of the
Burmans consisted of the construction of reservoirs for that great
necessity of life, water, both for drinking purposes and for irrigation,
and the formation of channels for conducting the water to the fields.
These works were found only in a few favoured places, and though not
finished in first-rate engineering style, exhibited no small amount of
ingenuity and skill. Beyond this their engineering manifested itself
rather in religious edifices than in works of general public utility.

There was therefore great need to supplement what the Burmans had left
lacking. The country was without a single good road. Even in Mandalay
itself there was not a road worthy of the name. Now some hundreds of
miles of good road have been constructed, the streams bridged, and
communications opened up on the principal lines of travel. An extensive
system of new irrigation works is under construction or in contemplation.
In every principal station barracks for the soldiers and the police, and
jails have been built, and in every town, market houses, court houses,
public offices and hospitals provided; so that already there is not a
town of any considerable size which does not show abundant outward signs
of the change which has come over the country.

Railways were of course unknown in Upper Burma before the advent of
British rule; and they are likely to prove a powerful stimulus to the
development of the country. There was a line of railway already finished
in Lower Burma from Rangoon to Toungoo, 166 miles, and the extension of
this line to Mandalay, 220 miles farther, was one of the first great
public works projected. It was sanctioned in November 1886; the survey
was pushed on and completed by the summer of 1887; the work was begun on
each section as soon as the estimates were sanctioned; and so rapidly was
the work carried on that an engine ran through from Toungoo to Mandalay
by May 1st, 1888. The line was finally completed and opened for traffic
in March 1889. The cost was a little over twenty millions of rupees.

At the beginning the work practically lay through an enemy’s country,
but survey parties and working parties were carefully guarded, and no
successful attacks were made upon the many thousands of labourers on the
work. The construction gave employment and wages to a large number of
Burmans, at a time when the labouring classes would have been otherwise
in great straits. The finding of honest remunerative work for so many
people was, in itself, a great check on dacoity. Since the railway was
opened the districts through which it runs have been the quietest in
Upper Burma, although previously so greatly disturbed.

From every point of view this first introduction of railways into Upper
Burma must be pronounced a great success. From the very first this line
paid its working expenses, and in conjunction with the rest of the state
railways in Burma, 4 per cent. on the capital invested. If it could do
that at the outset it will do much more when other railway extensions
are carried out, and roads are made as feeders to the traffic. To all
this must be added the great convenience it affords to the public and to
Government, and the impulse it gives to commerce, besides its strategic
importance from a military point of view.

Encouraged by this result, another line, called the Mu Valley extension,
is already well on towards completion. It starts from Sagaing, on the
opposite side of the Irrawaddy to Mandalay, proceeds in a northerly
direction, and will ultimately go as far as Mogaung in the far north
of the country, some 300 miles from Sagaing. The laying of this line
through the territory of the semi-independent little state of Wuntho was
the last straw that broke the back of the loyalty of the sawbwa. From
the first he had been awkward, and had given trouble, but the prospect
of having a railway through his dominions was too much for him, and he
broke out into open rebellion. There was nothing for it but to put down
the insurrection, annex his petty state, and administer it. Civilisation
and the general welfare cannot be expected to come to a standstill at the
bidding of an ignorant little chieftain like Wuntho.

Another extension of the Mandalay line, from Meiktila to Myingyan on the
Irrawaddy, is about to be taken in hand; and a second and more detailed
survey is shortly to be made for that very important extension from
Mandalay up to the hills, and across the Shan plateau in a north-easterly
direction, to open up the rich Shan country, and eventually, in all
probability, to connect Upper Burma with Yunan, the great westerly
province of China, with eleven millions of inhabitants.

Railways bring new life to a country like Burma, and arouse men from the
sleep of centuries. They pay well; they civilise the people by bringing
together, in an amicable way and for their mutual benefit, races and
tribes that formerly were enemies; they render it easier to get an honest
living than to live by robbery; they not only stimulate trade, they
create it; they help to solve the difficulties of demand and supply in
the labour question, by making it cheap and easy for the people to get to
and fro; and when times of scarcity and famine come round, they enable
the Government to cope with them, and prevent or mitigate their horrors.

The post, the telegraph and the telephone, which are now amongst the
necessities of civilised life, have all been established in Upper Burma,
and are now in thorough working order. In fact, so civilised has Upper
Burma become, that a movement is on foot for a private company to lay
down several miles of tramway in the streets of Mandalay, and start a
service of trams; and another scheme has been submitted for lighting the
principal streets with electricity.

A government in an Oriental country, to be successful, must, before
everything else, be strong, and nothing contributes more to this than
an efficient police. At the outset, the establishment of order was
largely a military work, and the brunt of it rested on our British and
Sepoy troops. But gradually as the country settled down, the troops
were reduced, and the police took over the work of keeping order. Here
was considerable scope for organisation. In most of the countries where
English rule has been established, we have managed to organise a police
out of the materials the country supplied. But the Burmans do not prove
very tractable for this, so that whilst there has been special need for
a strong police to keep matters in order, it so happens that we have a
people specially wanting in the qualities necessary for this work. The
police officers complain that the Burmans in the force “cannot be trusted
to oppose a larger force of dacoits, or to do sentry work.” The Burman
finds great difficulty in submitting to discipline or carrying out any
regular routine whatever in a reliable manner. He loves to have his own
way, to feel free to come and go just when he likes, and generally to go
on in a careless and casual manner.

After the annexation of Pegu in 1853, an attempt was made to raise a
military battalion of Burmese. By an unintentional irony it was called
“The Pegu Light Infantry.” It was found that they were altogether too
_light_ and lacking in the spirit of discipline ever to make good
soldiers, and the Pegu Light Infantry was accordingly disbanded.

For this reason Government has had to look elsewhere for its police,
and they have been recruited chiefly from amongst the warlike races of
Northern India, with a sprinkling of Burmans, who are necessary for the
detection of crime, and for such work as their knowledge of their own
people and language the better fits them. During the troublous times of
1886-89 there has been a force of twenty thousand civil and military
police, about two-thirds of whom were natives of India. But as the
number of crimes of violence decreases, it becomes possible greatly to
reduce this number.

Of all the numerous innovations on Oriental methods of government
which we have introduced, that of local self-government, as applied
to municipalities, is perhaps the most noteworthy, not for what it
does at present, but for what it leads up to. This little seedling
of _representative government_ we are sedulously planting everywhere
throughout our Indian Empire, and nurturing it with patient and
sympathetic care; and he would indeed be worthy of the name of prophet
who could say whereunto it will grow. Never under any Indian or Burmese
rule was there a vestige of representative government, but we think it
well to train them up to it.

The schoolboy in India has the History of England put into his hands, and
there he learns what Englishmen think of liberty and self-government;
and he finds that the ruling power has broadened down in the course of
ages from the one to the few, from the few to the many, and from the
many to the whole population, who now really govern themselves. Our
British policy is to organise municipalities in every considerable town.
We, the governing power, call together a native municipal committee,
as representative as we can make it by nomination, and then we say in
effect, “Now we have called you in to consult with us, the leading
English representatives of government, and by your votes to show your
opinions on such questions as the cleaning, the lighting, the paving,
and the sanitation of the town, its water supply, the regulation of
its markets, and a number of other local matters, and we ask you to
vote supplies of money for these things, and to levy taxes and rates
accordingly.”

All these things are matters of course to the Englishman in his own
country, and if any of them were conducted without consulting him through
his elected representatives, he would soon want to know the reason
why. But not so with the Oriental; they are to him innovations of an
unheard-of character. Neither he nor any of his forefathers were ever
asked to do such a thing as vote before. It is no wonder, therefore,
if our worthy native citizen takes his seat as he is bidden in the
municipal council-chamber of his town, bewildered at first with this
unwonted experience, voting to the best of his ability as he thinks the
worthy president, the English Deputy Commissioner of the district, would
desire him to vote. But in course of time he comes to see what it all
means, for the Oriental is by no means deficient in perception. He sees
that the measures proposed and carried affect him and his kindred and his
neighbours, and he begins to see that a voice and a vote mean power, and
that these are questions which touch his pocket and circumstances.

By-and-by the people find that the municipal ordinance provides for
the expression of their opinions in a more direct and effective way.
The rule is, that “as soon as any town desires to elect its members it
is permitted to do so.” In many towns in India they are now elected.
We have in Upper Burma seventeen municipalities, but in no case yet is
there any election of members; they are all appointed by nomination. The
change from the full-blown doctrine of the divine right of kings, in its
completest form, to representative government, is too sudden for them
to realise where they are as yet. But it will come. All the teaching we
give them, both by precept and example, is in effect this: _that the true
ideal of government is government by the people, and that all other forms
of government are only temporary expedients leading up to it_.

We cannot wonder if in time they follow the path where it logically
leads them to a wider outlook than merely municipal affairs. “If in
municipal why not in national affairs?” they will naturally ask. The
National Congress in India is the natural sequence of all this. It is
the feeling after some arrangement or institution that shall give effect
to the will of the people, on many more matters than they are at present
consulted upon. It may be silly sometimes, and selfish, and reactionary,
and stupidly conservative, and childish, but whatever its faults, its
follies, and its weaknesses, it is at all events our own bantling, the
child of our own careful nurture and instruction. It is no use our
attempting to frown it out of countenance; what we have to do is to take
it by the hand, and guide it until it reaches years of discretion.

[Illustration: BURMESE WOMAN ON HER WAY TO THE WELL TO DRAW WATER.]




CHAPTER VIII.

_INTOXICANTS IN BURMA—THE LIQUOR QUESTION._


We have seen how much there is to admire and to be proud of in the
capacity and skill of our nation as the great ruling power in India.
One cannot have dwelt in Upper Burma during the last few years without
observing how sincerely our rulers have sought the welfare of the people,
and how ably they have secured it. The liberty of the people, their
freedom from oppression, the greater security for life and property all
over the country, their general comfort and well-being, the introduction
of a far better system of law and justice than ever they knew before, the
development of the resources of the country, and the general prosperity
that has ensued, are results well worth securing.

But the countenance given to the sale and consumption of intoxicants,
and the growth of these vices under our rule, when we ought to be so
well able to discourage and check them, are very grave defects; and it
is this matter I propose in this and the following chapters to discuss.
This is just now a question which is receiving much attention. It is not
a case for heated controversy, or for calling ill names, but for calmly
and dispassionately looking the facts in the face, and asking ourselves
in the sight of God whether we are doing right, or whether there is not a
more excellent way.

A special and peculiar interest surrounds this question, owing partly to
the fact that the new province was so recently annexed, and our policy is
not as yet finally fixed; partly to the delicate and anomalous position
in which we, as a non-abstaining race, find ourselves, in governing a
race whose religion definitely enjoins total abstinence from everything
intoxicating, and who earnestly desire that prohibition be continued as
the law of the land; and partly from the very disastrous effects which
have been found to result from the policy we have been pursuing during
the many years we have been ruling Lower Burma.

On our annexing Upper Burma in 1886, we found the fifth commandment of
the Buddhist religion, “Thou shalt not take anything that intoxicates,”
was the law of the land, the only law on the subject the Burmans had ever
known. On this point I quote no less an authority than a despatch from
the Government of India to the Secretary of State, dated October 1886,
in which are certain “Instructions to Civil Officers,” and it is there
stated that—

“Burmans of all classes, monks and laity, very strongly wish that
drinking shops and the habit of drinking should be discouraged in Upper
Burma. In the time of the late king traffic in liquor was altogether
forbidden. No doubt there is some making and drinking of toddy, of rice
beer, and even of spirits in Burman villages. But the sense of the better
classes is against the practice. No revenue was ever raised by the late
king from liquor, lest he should seem to be encouraging evil. And under
the circumstances, it seems expedient to meet the wishes of the people by
declining for the present to license drinking shops.”

It certainly did seem expedient, with the nation on its knees begging us
not to inflict drinking shops upon them, to license no shops whatever;
and that not only “for the present,” but to resolve never to allow any.
If ever there was a case in this world for local option, which was
overwhelmingly in favour of entire prohibition, surely it was there; and
under such circumstances the introduction of licensed liquor shops, on
any plea whatever, was entirely unjustifiable and uncalled for. But the
document proceeds:—

“Where a real demand exists for liquor to be consumed by Europeans,
Indians or Chinese, shops for the sale of spirits and of fermented
liquors may be licensed.”

So it unfortunately comes to this, that because there are certain
foreigners in the country with “a real demand” for liquor, the whole
policy of the country is to be changed for their sakes, and an excitable,
volatile people such as the Burmans, peculiarly liable to fall away
through drink, are to be exposed to temptations in their streets, in the
shape of licensed liquor shops, such as they never had before, and such
as it is well known multitudes of them will be quite unable to resist. It
is true there is a clause in the law making it a punishable offence for
the holder of the licence to sell liquor to Burmans. But what avails such
a clause? The shops are there with the liquor for sale; that is the one
all-important and damaging fact; and as for that clause, it is in theory
a glaring anomaly, and in practice simply a farce. Any Burman can get as
much liquor as he wishes.

A recent Government report fully admits this, and shows the futility
of such a lame attempt to shield the Burmans from the effects of the
temptations furnished by the drinking taverns established in their midst.

“The licences for the sale of liquor and opium are intended for the
convenience of the non-Burman population of Upper Burma, and the sale of
either liquor (except tari) or opium to Burmans is prohibited by law. But
there can be no doubt that the prohibition is in practice inoperative.”

Now observe how we have progressed with this business during the first
few years of our rule. In Upper Burma, where, before we assumed the
government, there never had been such a thing as a licensed liquor shop,
and where drunkenness, when it did occur, was severely punished, there
are now 175 licensed liquor shops, and Burmans are constantly under
temptation to indulge. In Upper Burma, where there had always been every
discouragement to the manufacture of liquor, there are now central
distilleries established, under Government patronage and licence, for
the wholesale manufacture of spirits, and one of these turns out, as the
proprietor informed a friend of mine, 500 gallons a day.

Bad as Burmese rule was, corrupt, weak and worn out, and badly in want
of funds, it never sunk so low as to derive any revenue by the sale of
licences, but now the excise revenue from liquor and opium licences is
advancing by leaps and bounds.

    For the year 1887-88 it was 210,480 rupees
         ”       1888-89   ”    433,430   ”
         ”       1889-90   ”    541,700   ”

It looks as though liquor and opium under the British Government were
rapidly tightening their hold of the country, and it is quite time
England made up her mind what she is really going to do in the matter,
and whether she can reconcile this state of things with her notions of
duty to a subject race.

It is urged by the advocates of the present system that there was
drinking before, even under Burmese rule. No doubt there was. With the
materials all around in abundance in the products of the country, both
for fermenting and distilling liquors, it is not to be supposed that
alcohol was unknown. It was, however, a very uncommon thing amongst
Burmans to drink, and it can afford no possible justification for
licensing and thereby increasing the evil.

It is also urged that it is impossible to do away with drinking entirely.
“Prohibit it altogether,” say they, “and it will still go on secretly.”
There scarcely could be a poorer plea than this. How many evils and
crimes and vices there are in every country that cannot be entirely done
away with, and yet no one in his senses would propose to license and
regulate them on that ground. Our reply to this is that a Government can
only do its best, and if, after we had done our best to discourage the
drinking it still existed, despite all we could do, it would not be our
fault. But if King Theebaw could do as much as he evidently did, with his
worn-out methods of government, to keep his people sober, what might not
we accomplish with the splendid machine of government we possess?

The last resort of the apologists for licensing intoxicants usually is
that, good or bad, we are committed to the system, and cannot get rid
of it without causing greater evils than what we now have. This is one
of the arguments used with respect to India, but it fails altogether
when applied to Burma, and has not a leg to stand on. We had every
opportunity to have continued the law of prohibition just as we found it,
and the people earnestly requested us to do so, and we ought to have done
it. Even now it is not too late to retrace our steps in that direction,
for the present state of things is felt to be unsatisfactory, and the law
cannot be carried out.

Why cannot we end it by prohibiting the manufacture and sale of liquor
throughout the country? If it be said that this would bear hardly
upon the foreign residents, it may well be replied that the rights
and liberties of foreigners ought not to prejudice those of the vast
majority, the natives of the country; and if that were the law, and
foreigners did not choose to put up with it, they would have their
remedy. No one is compelled to live in Burma.

The pity is, that England should so lag behind in the matter of
temperance reform. The Empire is inevitably increasing, yet England, by
continuing to cling to liquor as she does, fails in this respect to fit
herself for properly carrying out her duty amongst the abstaining races
that come within the sphere of our influence.

The day is coming, as every one can see, when England’s own liquor
question must be effectually dealt with, for the mind of the majority
of the English people is rapidly ripening for it. But in the meantime,
the very painful, anomalous and inconsistent position we occupy in Upper
Burma—a Christian nation establishing liquor shops in every centre of
population, against the strongly expressed wishes of “all classes of
Burmans, monks and laity”—is a humiliating proof of the need there is for
this reform to be hastened at home, so that it may be faithfully carried
out abroad, and that too before it is too late.




CHAPTER IX.

_INTOXICANTS IN BURMA—THE OPIUM QUESTION._


If the case of Burma in respect of liquor is serious, that of opium is
more so. It presents in a vivid manner some of the most frightful evils
of the traffic in this drug, and it shows clearly the gross inconsistency
of any Christian nation, especially when it is the ruling power,
deliberately introducing and maintaining such an evil and profiting
largely in the revenue by it, when it is eating the very vitals of the
subject nation that has implored us again and again to remove it.

The whole question of the opium policy of our Indian Government in the
East is now prominently under the view of the nation. Parliament has
already declared in the abstract that our opium policy is indefensible,
and the conscience of the British public, never quite easy on the
subject, is at present feeling keenly about it. It seems not unlikely
that the consideration of Burma, our latest, and in some respects our
worst development of the policy, may greatly aid in shaping the views of
the public on this question, and may decide us, at the earliest possible
moment, to wash our hands of the whole sad business.

It ought, in the first place, to be understood that the opium business is
not like liquor in England, a matter of private enterprise. It is one big
monopoly of the Indian Government from first to last, and no one else is
allowed to manufacture it. Government assumes the entire responsibility
for the growth, manufacture, sale and export of opium, and sells licences
for the permission to retail it in British India. Government is the
proprietor of the whole concern. The greater part of the Indian opium
is exported to China, and there, as everybody knows, we added to our
delinquencies by compelling the Chinese, at the point of the sword, to
allow us to import opium into China, to the lasting detriment and ruin
of untold multitudes of that people. Some of the opium, a constantly
increasing quantity, is disposed of in the different provinces of India,
this part of the business also being under Government management and
licence.

As regards Upper Burma, the law we found on annexing the country was, and
had ever been, the law of prohibition. Government knew and fully admitted
this. From the despatch already quoted of October 1886, it would appear
at first sight that on taking over the country they had fully resolved to
continue that policy.

“No shops whatever will be licensed for the sale of opium, inasmuch as
all respectable classes of Burmans are against legalising the consumption
of opium in the new province.... As the traffic in opium was prohibited
under the Burmese Government, there will be no hardship in thus
proscribing opium dealings.”

But the very next sentence goes on to make an exception in favour of
Chinamen, to whom, and to whom only, it shall be lawful to sell opium,
and this clause at once lets in the mischief.

I know a small town in Upper Burma where a Chinaman obtained a licence to
sell opium to his countrymen under this regulation, on his representing
that there were two hundred of them in the town, when, as a matter of
fact, there were not more than half a dozen. He meant, of course, to
sell to the Burmans. I had this from the township officer, who knew all
the circumstances; not, however, the officer who had helped him to get
his licence. It is well known that the restriction is merely nominal and
ineffectual, and the Government officers freely admit the fact. A recent
Government officer of standing reports that—

“The consumption of liquors and opium is theoretically confined to the
non-Burman population. But there can be no doubt that a considerable
amount of both finds its way into the hands of Burmans.”

Of course it does. The temptations are there in the shape of licensed
shops, and the tempters in the shape of cunning Chinamen with an eye
to the main chance; and so long as this is the case the Burmans will
fall into the snare in ever-increasing numbers, for they are, like the
Chinese, peculiarly liable to yield to the opium habit. The following is
the testimony of Mr. Gregory, a gentleman who travelled through Burma
to see for himself what the facts of the case were; and whatever may be
said by the apologists for opium against alleged exaggerations, I think
we may, at any rate, receive the testimony of a Christian man concerning
what he saw himself. I quote what he says of Upper Burma. It fully proves
how ineffectual the restrictive legislation is, and how powerful the
temptation:—

“At Pyinmana I saw Burmans buying opium, and at the same place the abbot
of the Buddhist monasteries and one of the chief monks both told me that
large numbers of the Burmans smoked. One of them bitterly complained
that, whereas in the late king’s time he had power to stop these things,
now he had none. At Yamethin, a prominent Burman official told me that
there were numbers of purely Burmese villages in the neighbourhood
supplied with opium from the Yamethin centre. I myself saw Burmans
purchase opium there. At Kyaukse I saw Burmans served with opium. At all
three of the opium centres at Mandalay I saw opium served to Burmans. One
of the Chinese managers told me that the prohibition was only nominal,
and he expected that it would be shortly removed ‘now that the Opium Act
was getting into proper working order.’ At one of the Mandalay shops I
saw three Burmans being taught to smoke by one of the Chinese assistants.
A fourth was lying insensible. At Katha I saw a number of Burmans smoking
opium in their houses in rooms quite open and visible, close by the
court-house. At Bhamo, in the far north, I saw Burmans in crowds buying
opium at the Government centre.”

Thus this legislative expedient we pretend to have adopted for keeping
the Burman from opium completely breaks down, and is a mere dead letter.
Nominally we are carrying out prohibition as we undertook to do, but
really we are tempting the Burmans to their ruin by means of the
licensed shops. Time was when Chinese opium vendors in Upper Burma,
when caught, were disgraced in every possible way, and even flogged
and imprisoned. Recently Mr. Justice Grantham, at the Durham assizes,
was trying the case of one miner who had caused the death of another,
while the two were drunk together in the Colliery Tavern. The prisoner
was found guilty. Upon this his lordship directed the landlord of the
Colliery Tavern to take his place beside the prisoner in the dock, and
the landlord having done so, the judge proceeded to tell him in plain
terms that he (the judge) would have felt more satisfied if the jury,
instead of finding the prisoner guilty, had found the publican guilty of
causing the death of the deceased. He had served the deceased with liquor
when he was drunk already, and had undoubtedly thus caused the man’s
death.

The Burman king’s way of looking upon opium vendors was the right way,
and the judge’s rebuke of the publican was well merited; the misfortune
is that so few can see it yet. The Chinese wealthy opium vendors in Burma
now ride in first-class railway carriages, and are put forward into the
honorary rank of municipal commissioners; whilst in England we go further
than this, and admit to the peerage the heads of the great brewing firms!

We have carried the exceptional, “grandmotherly” method of legislation
to a very absurd length in Burma, prompted on the one hand by our usual
policy of regulating by licensing these vicious indulgences, and yet
restrained by a natural horror for the mischief they do to the Burmese
race, and by a well-grounded fear, founded on painful experience, that if
we do not somehow keep the nation from liquor and opium, these vices will
destroy multitudes of them.

Liquor can be lawfully sold in Upper Burma to Europeans, Eurasians,
natives of India and Chinese, but not to Burmans.

Opium to Chinese only.

Both liquor and opium may be sold to Burmans in Lower Burma.

Gunja, a product of hemp, very intoxicating, and used largely by natives
of India in their own country, is absolutely forbidden to everybody in
Burma.

The absurd and illogical in legislation could hardly go further than the
British have gone in these complicated enactments. In view of all this
one naturally inquires, If it be right to prohibit gunja, why should it
not be proper to forbid opium? If opium ought to be kept from every race
in Upper Burma but one, and they immigrants from a foreign country and a
very small minority, why not go further and shut it out altogether? If
liquor and opium are denied to Upper Burmans, why should they be allowed
to the same race in Lower Burma, where they have done so much mischief?
If liquor is bad for Burmans in Upper Burma, how can it be good for
Europeans, Chinese and natives of India?

We should have entire prohibition of the opium curse in Upper Burma
if it were not for the Chinese; that lets in all the mischief. Why is
this? Why indeed, unless it is that having forced opium upon them in
China at the point of the bayonet, we cannot for very shame withhold it
from them in Burma, but must grant them the indulgence, at any cost to
the inhabitants, lest we become a byword and a laughing-stock among the
nations. There is no consistent standing place between total prohibition
on the one hand, and the cynical tone adopted by the advocates of
licensing on the other: “It comes to this, that if the Burmans cannot
learn to use these indulgences in moderation they must take the
consequences.”

If we persist in driving the Burmans to “_take the consequences_” God
will surely require it at our hands.

The further we go into the question the more does it demonstrate the
utter futility of a vacillating, partial, halting policy like this our
latest in Burma. There is nothing for it but to make that clean sweep of
it which the Burmans have always requested we would, and to repent and do
our first works, however late in the day it is for us to begin. A brief
review of the history of the opium difficulty in our older province of
Lower Burma gives emphasis to this view.

There is no wonder our rulers should in the new province show some
signs of compunction, and some feeble attempt to prohibit opium to the
Burmans, with the dreadful experience of Lower Burma before their eyes.
But they should have gone further, and made prohibition complete. Lower
Burma is in the unenviable position of having the largest consumption of
opium, per head of the population, of any of our Indian provinces. The
quantity supplied by Government for the year 1890-91 was 54,205 seers for
a population of 4,658,000.

It is evident from these startling figures that opium in Lower Burma
has a history; and a sad and disgraceful history it is so far as our
Government is concerned. I gather the following particulars from a
publication issued by the Society for the Suppression of the Opium Trade.

The provinces of Arakan and Tenasserim were annexed in 1826, and Pegu in
1853, and these three provinces formed what has since been known as Lower
Burma or British Burma.

There is satisfactory evidence that before these territories came under
the British flag, the opium vice, though not absolutely unknown, was not
prevalent. An official report, dated 1870, states that “Opium eating is
not a Burmese habit; it is a _new_ vice.” Another, dated 1856, says, “The
use of this deleterious drug, strictly prohibited in Burmese times, has
been considerably on the increase of late.” The late Rev. C. Bennett of
the American Baptist Mission said, “When I first arrived in the country
in 1830 opium was rarely used, and almost entirely confined to Chinamen.
There were, however, a few Burmans who used it, and they were looked upon
by their countrymen as outcasts and worse than thieves.”

One of the earliest measures of the Indian Government was the
establishment of shops to retail opium, with no restriction as to the
number of shops. It was a notorious fact, and it was officially stated at
the time by Government servants, shocked at the demoralising effects of
the vice, that—

“Organised efforts were made by Bengal agents to introduce the use of
the drug, and to create a taste for it among the rising generation. The
general plan was to open a shop with a few cakes of opium, and to invite
the young men, and distribute it gratuitously. Then when the taste was
established, the opium was sold at a low rate. Finally, as it spread
throughout the whole neighbourhood, the price was raised, and large
profits ensued.”

In the Excise Report for 1879-80, the district officer for Prome called
attention to this growing evil in similar terms, and he gives the details
of the way in which lads of twelve or fourteen years of age were allured
to evil courses by having the opium supplied to them at first in a milder
form.

From time to time the Burmans expostulated with their rulers on this
matter. The Chief Commissioner reported in 1865:—

“Last year a majority of the respectable Arakanese petitioned me,
asserting that their own children and most of the young men of the
country had become drunkards, and had acquired within a few years a
craving for spirits and opium.”

Again, in 1880, a large deputation of the most influential natives of
the town waited upon Commissioner Aitchison, and presented a petition,
describing in very forcible language the misery entailed on the
population by opium, and praying that the traffic might be altogether
abolished in Arakan. The petitioners suggested that Government should
impose an extra land tax, in order to make up the deficit which would
be occasioned by the loss of the opium revenue, a clear proof of their
sincerity.

In the report on the Administration of British Burma during 1877-78,
attention was called to the deterioration of the national character, and
the increase of gambling, theft, dacoity and other crimes, as the result
of the growth of the liquor and opium habits. A searching inquiry was
instituted, and the result was the accumulation of a mass of evidence
which was irresistible. The wonder was how any Christian Government could
ever have established such an abominable system, and having carelessly
established it, should have been deaf to repeated remonstrances during
so long a course of years. A few brief extracts may be given to show the
character of the reports. They are the testimonies of some of the highest
British officials, men well acquainted with the country, and responsible
for what they said.

Colonel D. Brown, formerly Commissioner of Tenasserim Division, dated
April 18th, 1870:—

“In this province the words an opium smoker or eater and a vagabond
are, and have been for many years, synonymous. The old and respectable
portion of our population complain much of our opium shops, and of the
evils they bring on them. The sleepy, dreamy state of the opium smoker
has a peculiar attraction for our people; they take to it, and after
having acquired the habit, they cannot give it up; their friends refuse
to support them; they steal, rob or murder, to get their food and their
opium; they often take to dacoity, and join a frontier band; or, if they
remain in the province, they end their days in jail, or a halter puts an
end to their existence.”

Colonel E. B. Sladen, Commissioner of Arakan Division, dated September
13th, 1878:—

“During my residence in Arakan, I have been impressed and made to feel
and acknowledge, in opposition, I may say, to all previous ideas on
the subject, that opium is becoming the _scourge_ of the country. The
importance of the evil is this, that the addition to opium consumption is
alarmingly on the increase.”

G. J. S. Hodgkinson, Esq., Officiating Commissioner of Arakan Division,
dated March 12th, 1879:—

“There can be no conception on the part of Government of the fearful
strides with which the demoralisation of the Arakanese portion of the
Kyouk-pyoo district is progressing, mainly owing to the indulgence of the
inhabitants in this vice.”

The following is an extract from a memorial presented by the leading
natives of Akyab to the Chief Commissioner on March 13th, 1878:—

“The consumption of opium is contrary to the religion of the people, and
its baneful effects are telling markedly on their character, inducing
enervation of both mind and body, unfitting them for the active duties of
life, whereby the material progress of the country is retarded. Lands are
thrown out of cultivation, those who should be engaged in agricultural
pursuits becoming unfitted for work, and taking to idleness and bad
livelihood.”

The Chief Commissioner sums up this extraordinary body of testimony in an
unsparing indictment of opium in Burma, which leaves it no loophole of
excuse.

“The papers now presented for consideration present a painful picture
of the demoralisation, misery and ruin produced amongst the Burmese by
opium smoking. Responsible officers in all divisions and districts of the
province, and natives everywhere, bear testimony to it. To facilitate the
examination of the evidence on this point, I have thrown some extracts
from the reports into an appendix to this memorandum. These show that
among the Burmans the habitual use of the drug saps the physical and
mental energies, destroys the nerves, and emaciates the body, predisposes
to disease, induces indolent and filthy habits of life, destroys
self-respect, is one of the most fertile sources of misery, destitution
and crime, fills the jails with men of relaxed frames predisposed to
dysentery and cholera, prevents the due extension of cultivation and
the development of the land revenue, checks the natural growth of the
population, and enfeebles the constitution of succeeding generations.
That opium smoking is spreading at an alarming rate under our rule
does not admit of doubt. On this point the testimony of all classes of
officers and of the people is unanimous.”

A high official gentleman, Mr. Hodgkinson, the late Judicial Commissioner
of Upper Burma, when Commissioner of the Irrawaddy District, wrote:—

“A large revenue is secured to the Government by the present system, but
it is secured by sapping the very hearts’ blood of the people, the better
classes of whom most bitterly reproach us, and, in my opinion, very
justly, for our apathy and misgovernment in this matter.”

To sum up, the following facts are proved, beyond all manner of doubt;
and criticism of them, though it may attempt to palliate, cannot explain
them away:—

    1. The Burmans have strongly objected to any licensing of opium
    from first to last.

    2. In spite of their continued protests the British Government
    has thrust it upon them.

    3. The Burman temperament and constitution is found to be
    peculiarly liable to succumb to this temptation.

    4. Seeing and feeling the alarming growth of the evil, the
    Burmans have bitterly complained, and begged their rulers to
    remove the evil, but in vain.

    5. Officials in different parts of the province have faithfully
    reported these things, and their reports have been in print for
    years.

    6. The evil has gone on increasing to this day, and now has
    reached unprecedented proportions. In Lower Burma the excise
    revenue (liquor and opium) has increased 80 per cent. in
    the _five years_ ending with 1890, whereas the increase of
    population has only been 22 per cent. for the _ten years_. The
    excise revenue of all India yields an average of 4 annas per
    head of the whole population; in Lower Burma it averages 9
    annas.

    7. And lastly, we are in danger of doing the same thing in the
    new province of Upper Burma unless we alter our policy.

What is required for the removal of this evil is a complete reform. The
feeble attempts at remedy so far have shown themselves to be useless.

The first attempt at improvement was the closing of the greater part of
the licensed shops in Lower Burma. A good deal has been made of that by
the upholders and defenders of the present system. We are told that there
is only one licensed opium house in Akyab, for instance. An eyewitness
tells us that in forty-five minutes he visited fifty opium dens in that
town of “only one licensed shop,” and he was told that there are in the
district not less than one thousand places where opium is sold. That one
house pays 158,000 rupees (about £10,533) annually for licence duty.

The system of high licences has been tried, and the price has been put
up, until in Rangoon the price of the drug is equal to its weight in
silver, but this makes little or no difference.

Sir Alexander Mackenzie, the present Chief Commissioner of Burma, now
proposes to make it penal to sell opium to Burmans in Lower Burma, as it
is in Upper Burma, or for Burmans to be in possession of opium; but this
is merely trifling with the evil. If it is ineffectual in Upper Burma,
what good is it likely to accomplish in the Lower province, where so
many have acquired the habit?

These all stop short of an effectual dealing with the opium question;
they will avail nothing so long as the drug is within reach. The
real remedy, I submit, is entire prohibition, and many officials of
Government, of standing and experience, concur in this view. Let our
Indian Government give up entirely, except for medicinal purposes,
this iniquitous and disreputable business of manufacturing and
supplying opium, and get rid of the guilt of it. “Native opinion,” says
Commissioner Aitchison, speaking of Burma, “is unanimously in favour of
stopping the supply altogether, and no measures we could adopt would
be so popular with all the respectable and law-abiding class of the
population.”

Lord Cross has recently said: “It is not practicable to close all opium
shops and to stop opium consumption so long as opium is grown in British
India and in the native states.” Quite so. No doubt we shall have to take
up the accursed thing by the roots to do it effectually.

We are told that the consequences of this course would be very dreadful,
but we have been told this in the case of every reform ever yet
proposed, and the statement has ceased to frighten us. If we had the
cordial support of the whole of the “respectable and law-abiding class
of the population,” no great harm could come of it. At any rate, the
consequences could not then be worse than they are now.




CHAPTER X.

_THE FRONTIER MOUNTAIN RACES OF BURMA._


In Burma there are in all some forty different races and tribes. These
may be grouped into two classes. First, there are the Buddhist races,
consisting of the more civilised peoples, the Burmans, Talaings and
Shans, the inhabitants of the best parts of the country, the rich
and fertile plains and valleys of the great rivers, and the great
plateau country to the east bordering on China. These races form the
bulk of the population, have each a language and literature of their
own, and far more of the arts and conveniences of life than their
more barbarous neighbours. And secondly, we have the many spirit or
demon-worshipping races, who have never yet become Buddhist—the wild,
unlettered, uncivilised tribes scattered all along the mountains on
Burma’s frontiers, north, east and west. They have never got beyond that
primitive form of religion which would appear to have been the earlier
worship of all the races of that region; and, far removed from the
pathways of commerce, their barbarous condition remains much as it was
centuries ago.

These hill-races are very various. Bordering on Lower Burma are the
Karens, now well known in the history of missions as a remarkable
instance of the rapidly regenerating and uplifting power of the Gospel.
Theirs is as cheering and striking a narrative as missionary annals
afford. What Fiji has been to the Wesleyan Missionary Society the Karen
mission in Burma has been to the American Baptist Mission.

There are some fifteen or twenty tribes of them in all, more or less
closely connected, all supposed to be of the Aryan stock. There are
different languages among them; their unlettered condition naturally
resulting in the multiplication of tongues and dialects, and the
isolation of the many tribes contributing to the same result.

The American Baptist Mission has done splendid work amongst the Karens.
They found them, like all the other hill-tribes, without a trace of
a written language. Into two of the Karen languages, the Pwo Karen
and the Sgau Karen, the entire Bible has been translated, and quite a
considerable literature has been produced. Degraded and oppressed greatly
by the Burmans in the days of Burman rule, the Burmans quite needlessly
regarding them and treating them as nothing better than animals, they
were peculiarly amenable, as all races under similar circumstances are,
to the kindly, beneficent message of the Gospel. Like the rest of the
hill-tribes, they were utterly ignorant and addicted to drunkenness. But
it has ever been found that the hindrances to the Gospel arising from a
low state of civilisation are not formidable in comparison with those
which spring from the possession of a powerful, well-defined, ancient
system of religion such as Buddhism, which claims to have a philosophy
which accounts for everything, and whose rites and observances meet
all the wants of which its followers are conscious. It is part of the
principle of compensation we find running through life, that “these
things”—the mysteries of the Kingdom—are ever hid from “the wise and
prudent, and revealed to babes.” It is part of the mercy and wisdom of
the Divine appointments, and it tends to give the uncivilised nations
their fair chance.

[Illustration: BURMESE CHILDREN.]

The following account of this interesting people, whose manners, language
and worship are quite distinct from those of the Burmans, is from the pen
of Mrs. Emily C. Judson, the wife of Dr. Judson, the first missionary of
the American Baptist Mission.

    “They are a rude, wandering race, drawing their principal
    support from the streams that flow through their valleys,
    and from the natural products of their native mountains.
    They migrate in small parties, and, when they have found a
    favourable spot, fire the underbrush, and erect a cluster
    of three or four huts on the ashes. In the intervals of
    procuring food, the men have frequent occasion to hew out a
    canoe or weave a basket; and the women manufacture a kind of
    cotton cloth, which furnishes materials for the clothing of
    the family. Here they remain until they have exhausted the
    resources of the surrounding forest, when they seek out another
    spot, and repeat the same process.

    “The Karens are a meek, peaceful race, simple and credulous,
    with many of the softer virtues, and few flagrant vices. Though
    greatly addicted to drunkenness, and extremely filthy and
    indolent in their habits, their morals in other respects are
    superior to many more civilised races. Their traditions, like
    those of several tribes of American Indians, are a curious
    medley of truth and absurdity; but they have some tolerably
    definite ideas of a Great Being who governs the universe,
    and many of their traditionary precepts bear a striking
    resemblance to those of the Gospel.[1] They have various petty
    superstitions, but, with the exception of a small division,
    they have never adopted Buddhism, the oppressive treatment
    which they have received at the hands of their Burmese rulers
    probably contributing to increase their aversion to idolatry.

    “Soon after the arrival of the first Burmese missionary in
    Rangoon, his attention was attracted by small parties of
    strange, wild-looking men, clad in unshapely garments, who from
    time to time straggled past his residence. He was told they
    were Karens; that they were more numerous than any similar
    tribe in the vicinity, and as untamable as the wild cow of
    the mountains. He was further told that they shrank from
    association with other men, seldom entering a town except
    on compulsion; and that therefore any attempt to bring them
    within the sphere of his influence would prove unsuccessful.
    His earnest inquiries, however, awakened an interest in the
    minds of the Burmese converts; and one of them finding, during
    the war, a poor Karen bond-servant in Rangoon, paid his debt,
    and thus became, according to the custom of the country, his
    temporary master. When peace was restored, he was brought to
    the missionaries on the Tenasserim coast, and instructed in
    the principles of the Christian religion. He eventually became
    the subject of regenerating grace, and proved a faithful
    and efficient evangelist. Through this man, Ko-Thah-Byu by
    name, access was gained to others of his countrymen, and they
    listened with ready interest. They were naturally docile; they
    had no long-cherished prejudices and time-honoured customs to
    fetter them; and their traditions taught them to look for the
    arrival of white-faced foreigners from the west, who would
    make them acquainted with the true God. The missionaries
    in their first communications with the Karens were obliged
    to employ a Burmese interpreter; and notwithstanding the
    disadvantages under which they laboured, the truth spread
    with great rapidity. Soon, however, Messrs. Wade and Mason
    devoted themselves to the acquisition of the language, and
    the former conferred an inestimable blessing on the race, by
    reducing it to writing. This gave a fresh impetus to the spread
    of Christianity. The wild men and women in their mountain
    homes found a new employment, and they entered upon it with
    enthusiastic avidity. They had never before supposed their
    language capable of being represented by signs, like other
    languages; and they felt themselves, from being a tribe of
    crushed, down-trodden slaves, suddenly elevated into a nation,
    with every facility for possessing a national literature.
    This had a tendency to check their roving propensities; and
    under the protection of the British Government they began to
    cultivate a few simple arts, though the most civilised among
    them still refuse to congregate in towns, and it is unusual
    to find a village that numbers more than five or six houses.
    Their first reading books consisted of detached portions
    of the Gospel, and the Holy Spirit gave to the truth thus
    communicated regenerating power. Churches sprang up, dotting
    the wilderness like so many lighted tapers; and far back among
    the rocky fastnesses of the mountains, where foreign foot has
    never trod, the light is already kindled, and will continue to
    increase in brilliancy, till one of the darkest corners shall
    be completely illuminated.”

Since these words were written many years have passed away, and the
process of the making and upraising of the Karens has steadily proceeded.
In all the principal centres where they are found dwelling the Mission
has flourishing churches and schools; and they have been found at all
times of unrest and insurrection, when violent crime has been rife,
amongst the most loyal subjects of the British power in Burma; and of
late years, especially since the annexation of Upper Burma has been
accompanied and succeeded by a period of disorder, the British Government
has learnt how surely it can confide in the loyalty of the Christian
Karens, and what good service they can render in time of need.

The following particulars, taken from the _Encyclopædia of Missions_
recently published, give interesting information concerning the Karen
Mission in one of its chief centres.

    “The Bassein Sgau Karen Mission is the crowning glory and
    most perfect flower of the Karen Missions of Burma. Begun in
    1837 by the preaching of Mr. Abbott, who spent but five or
    six days there, the good work went on, entirely through the
    labour of native converts, and the circulation of books and
    tracts in Karen and Burmese, till in 1839 more than 2,000
    were converted, though only one had been baptized. The fires
    of persecution raged fiercely; the converts were beaten,
    chained, fined, imprisoned, sold as slaves, tortured, and put
    to death; but not one apostatised. Mr. Abbott and the other
    missionaries were forbidden to enter Bassein under pain of
    death, and in 1840 he removed to Sandoway, Arakan, which was
    British territory, separated from Bassein by the Yoma range of
    mountains; and from there he and his associates managed the
    Karen Mission for thirteen years. In 1852-53 the missionaries
    and the Sandoway Mission were transferred to Bassein. About
    20 churches and 2,000 members went from Arakan, and in all
    there were 58 churches, about 6,100 members, and nearly 5,000
    converts not yet baptized. More than 5,000 had passed away
    from Burmese cruelties, cholera and other pestilences, famine
    and exposure on the mountains. The whole number of converts up
    to that time had been about 16,000. Their course since then
    has been one of steady progress. In 1854 the churches became
    self-supporting, and missionary efforts for the heathen around
    them by the native evangelists were commenced; village schools
    were established, and a town High School commenced under Mr.
    Beecher’s efforts. The spiritual condition was improved; in
    1866 all the schools were supported by the churches. Mr. Abbott
    died in 1854, and Mr. Beecher in 1866. In 1868 Mr. Carpenter
    took charge, and, while constantly striving for their spiritual
    growth, he pushed forward educational measures and a thorough
    system of schools, culminating in the Ko-Thah-Byu Memorial
    Hall, till in twelve years this people, steeped to the lips in
    poverty, expended in the building, supporting and endowing of
    schools a sum equal to £27,000, besides building their chapels,
    supporting their pastors, their village schools, and their
    native missionaries; and in 1875 and 1877 sent 1,000 rupees
    to the sufferers from famine in Toungoo, and to the perishing
    Telugus. Since 1880, under Mr. Nichols, they have continued
    to advance. They have endowed their High School, ‘the best in
    all Burma,’ with about £10,000; they have 425 students of both
    sexes, a fine printing office, and an extensive sawmill and
    machine shop. Both board and tuition are free to those who can
    pass the examination. They have enlarged their great Memorial
    Hall, and built and endowed a hospital. The discipline of the
    churches is strict; their pastors are well and thoroughly
    trained; their benevolence is maintained on a system which
    reaches every member; and in their dress, furniture, domestic
    life and social condition, they compare favourably with the
    country churches in Christian lands. There are now in the
    Bassein Mission 89 churches, and nearly 10,000 members, with
    an adherent population in their 85 Christian villages of about
    50,000 souls.

    “There are in all Burma about 480 Karen churches, with about
    28,200 members, and an adherent population of 200,000.”

Well may we exclaim in view of these facts and statistics, “What hath
God wrought!” Seldom, indeed, has such a record as this been possible,
that in the short space of fifty years so lowly a people should not only
embrace the Gospel, but should rise to the happy conditions of civilised
life, and of educational and social progress, such as they enjoy. Most
gladly do I add my independent testimony to the thorough success of this
mission work amongst the Karens, as instances of it have come within my
own observation.

I have known intimately in Upper Burma, for years, Karens doing well in
different walks of life—in the medical profession, as teachers, as clerks
in Government offices, and as surveyors—who are as devout, upright and
consistent members of the Christian Church as are to be found anywhere.
I have sat and listened in Upper Burma with wonder and admiration to a
concert consisting of classical English music, anthems, glees, choruses
and solos, rendered by Karen young men and maidens from the High School
at Bassein above mentioned, that would have afforded the greatest delight
to any English audience, and would have been the rage of the season, if
the same had been given with such perfect musical accuracy, sweetness
and harmony in London or Manchester. I have been brought into close
daily contact for two or three years, in the work of our own Mission,
with two Karen young men, members of the Baptist Church in Lower Burma,
who came to help us at the outset of our work, and I am able to testify
that in regard to educational attainments, Christian character and
consistency, truthfulness, purity and integrity of life, I found them all
I could wish. If I had never met with any other evidence of the kind,
this alone would have been quite sufficient to prove the mighty power
of Divine grace to uplift the lowest and the most degraded, if only the
circumstances afford a fair chance and the Gospel be fairly presented.

If few fields of missionary labour have yielded such rapid and
satisfactory results, it is because in few instances indeed have the
social conditions and even the very traditions of a people afforded
such a conjuncture of favourable circumstances as was the case with the
Karens. In the case of the Mission of the same Society to the Burmans
and other Buddhist races of Burma, there has been no such striking and
phenomenal success. There are to-day twenty Karen converts to one Burman,
and the work throughout has been in like proportion twenty times as hard
in regard to obtaining success amongst the latter as amongst the former.

The question of mission work in relation to successful results, and the
tractability of different races in respect to the Gospel, is a very
wide and complex question, that has never yet received the patient and
intelligent study it deserves. People find it difficult to understand
why, in the same Mission, Burmese work should yield such different
results from Karen work, and why converts should be numbered by units
in Benares and by thousands in Tinnevelly; though they can see reasons,
when it is brought home to them, why Cornwall should be a much better
field for evangelical preaching than County Cork. And the conclusion
is often too hastily reached in favour of some pet theory or method as
against others. But a wider experience goes to show that though the right
methods and the right men are essential to success, success on this large
scale is far more than a question of methods and men. It is largely a
question of _the circumstances in which the people are found_. In the
prosecution of missionary labours in different lands, and even amongst
different races in the same country, the utmost diversity obtains in
their conditions.

We meet, for instance, with nations enjoying very ancient civilisations,
like the Hindus and the Chinese; some, like the Mahomedans, under
the power of a religion which they hold with the utmost tenacity of
enthusiasm; others again, like the Buddhists, in proud possession of a
philosophy and a literature that fully satisfies them. It is in such
cases that the Gospel is confronted with its greatest difficulties. In
conjunction with these conditions, others of a social character are
sometimes found, that greatly increase the difficulties of the situation,
as, for instance, where large communities are hedged round with the
restraints of caste, which, while they secure them in the exclusive
enjoyment of rank, influence and privilege, greatly cripple them in
respect of liberty of conscience and conduct. To win people to the
Gospel from such conditions has always been a difficult task, for it
usually requires them to give up all that human beings ordinarily value
most.

But in the case of races like the Karens of Burma, the Pariahs and
other low castes of India, and the negro slaves of the West Indies,
Christianity finds human beings suffering from special disabilities, a
lowly people, shut out, by the selfishness of those above them, from
all the ordinary chances of bettering their lot, ill-used, oppressed,
enslaved, kept in unlettered ignorance, deprived of all that makes life
worth living. When the Gospel messenger speaks to them hopefully of a
better state of things, and holds out a helping hand, it is evident, even
to their dark minds, that this is their one chance of improvement, both
in temporal and eternal things. They have everything to gain and almost
nothing to lose by embracing the Gospel, and the consequence is that the
success of the Gospel amongst such races is usually rapid.

Another class of races there is, consisting of tribes wild and barbarous,
beyond the confines of civilisation, and from time immemorial left to
themselves, whose state of primitive savagery precludes the possibility
of any elaborate form of religion, quite unlettered, and without
a written language. Such are many of the races of the interior of
Africa, many of the hill-tribes of Asia, and the inhabitants of the
groups of islands in Polynesia. Here, again, are found the conditions
generally favourable for a rapid ingathering, notwithstanding their
extreme barbarism and coarse brutality at first, amounting sometimes to
cannibalism. For even the savage is conscious before long that he has
something to gain by adopting the ways of civilisation. Where mission
work has been conducted with perseverance in such countries it has always
been successful.

When we have fully recognised the mighty power of the Holy Spirit, to
whose gracious influences we are indebted for _all_ Gospel success, and
when we have said all we have to say about different methods and men, the
student of missions will still feel that he has not fully accounted for
the marked diversity in the successes; he must also take account of the
social and economic conditions of the different races, when the Gospel
addresses them, and the hold their own religions generally have upon
their minds. For the Gospel is like every other force in the universe,
whether moral or physical, in this, that it always proceeds with most
energy along the track of the least resistance; and he will find, if he
carefully studies the matter, that the difficulties arising from social
disabilities, and from a low state of civilisation, are not the greatest
possible hindrances to the Gospel.

In the approaching revival of missionary activity and enthusiasm these
questions are sure to receive more careful attention; and when these
problems come to be considered, Burma with its different races will
contribute not a few interesting facts and experiences.

The success of the Gospel amongst the Karens causes one to look wistfully
at some others of the frontier mountain races of Burma. The religious
views of all these primitive tribes are of much the same type, and their
religious observances, what few they have, are similar. Their religion
consists in the worship of _nats_ or demons. They believe all nature is
filled with _nats_; every stone, and tree, and pool, and breath of air
has its spirit inhabiting it; and these _nats_ are malevolent in their
nature. Their religious observances consist not so much in worshipping
them, as in propitiating them by means of offerings. They practise no
regular system of worship, but consult the _nats_ occasionally, whenever
things do not go well with them, or whenever there seems special reason
to fly to the supernatural for guidance. Thus they have not much to
cling to in the way of a religion, and their life and surroundings are
so barbarous as to appear, even to themselves, obviously capable of
improvement.

In the north of Burma, on the mountains in the neighbourhood of Bhamo,
are found the Kachins, a warlike hill people who have, since the
annexation of Upper Burma, given the British some trouble by their
raiding propensities. Amongst them the bones of sacrificed animals and
other articles are placed outside the villages, to prevent the _nats_
from entering in search of victims. It is believed that by this means
their attention is called off. Some of the Kachins have taken to coming
down from the hills and settling in Bhamo for work as labourers; and a
successful work is being carried on by the American Baptist Mission
there.

Since the annexation a good deal has been done in the way of exploring
the country, and bringing to light interesting facts with regard to these
barbarous tribes on our frontiers. Lieutenant R. M. Rainey, Commandant
of the Chin Frontier Levy, has published some interesting notes of his
observations amongst the Chin tribes bordering on the Yaw country in the
Pakokku district. The following facts are largely culled from his notes,
many of them having been corroborated by what the writer and a missionary
companion witnessed, in a recent visit to the tribe of the Chinbôk Chins,
living nearest to the district described.

The Chins of that region consist of various tribes all more or less
distinct in language, and to some extent in customs, the Weloung Chins,
the Boungshès, the Chinbôks, the Yindus, and the Chinbôns. No less than
eight different dialects are spoken by these tribes, the Chinbôk language
itself subdividing into three.

There is no attempt at any system of laws or government amongst them,
beyond the fact that they have something of a village system, and there
are certain customs which all observe. Quarrels are wiped out with blood.
Their religion, in common with that of all the other mountain tribes of
the frontiers, consists in propitiating and consulting the _nats_. For
this an animal must be slaughtered—a buffalo, a bullock, a goat, a pig,
a dog, or a fowl. The slaughtered animal is always afterwards eaten.
In consulting the _nats_ they observe the direction in which the blood
of the sacrificed animal flows; this and similar omens are observed
and acted upon. When raiding, or on a journey, or passing through a
notoriously unhealthy jungle, sacrifices are frequently made, the animals
being taken with them on purpose. Dogs are preferred for this object,
as they follow, and require no carrying or leading. If the omens prove
unfavourable they fear to carry out their purpose. Raids are frequently
abandoned in this way at the last moment, and after they have travelled
long distances.

If, when the omens prove unfavourable, the parties are nevertheless
desirous of accomplishing their purpose, as for instance in the case
of an intended marriage, the _nats_ are periodically consulted until
they are favourable. This must always happen in time if they are only
consulted frequently enough.

The Chins are very much given to drunkenness, and are inclined to make of
any and every incident a special occasion for getting drunk. A visitor,
a birth, a marriage, a death, a case of sickness, are all possible and
likely occasions for a carousal. In this worship of Bacchus they differ
essentially from their Buddhist neighbours; but they may fairly claim
to resemble in that respect many individuals of a distant race, and a
race laying claim to a far higher civilisation. They have a novel mode
of drinking the rice beer they manufacture for these occasions. The
liquor is stored in jars standing two feet in height, and half full of
fermenting grain. A hollow bamboo, the thickness of one’s little finger,
is thrust into the jar and pressed well down into the grain. The company
sit round and take sucks in turn.

Of medicine and surgery they know nothing. When they fall sick they make
no attempt at medicine, but merely consult the _nats_ to ascertain the
result, and propitiate them to avert the calamity.

Scarcely any clothing is worn by the men, and that of the women, though
sufficient for mere decency, is scanty, the legs being entirely bare.
They are all fond of ornaments. Necklaces of beads of all kinds are
much worn, cocks’ feathers appear in the topknots of the men, and a
kind of brass skewer is worn in the hair. They are also fond of wearing
deer’s teeth and cowries. Telegraph wire, a new importation into their
territory, forms a great temptation to them, inasmuch as a few inches of
that metal, bent into a circle, forms a most becoming earring.

Their weapons consist of bows and arrows, which they use with great
dexterity. They often carry a short spear, and every man has a kind
of weapon, which is dagger, knife and hatchet all in one, which sadly
too often does murderous execution in their quarrels, and which, when
not in use, is worn on the person in a bone scabbard consisting of the
shoulder-blade of the buffalo.

Their cultivation, though of a very rude description, is a laborious
business. They have first to fell the jungle on the steep slopes of
the hills, and after some months, during which it has had time to dry,
they burn what has been felled. The grain is then sown without further
preparation. They can only cultivate in the same place in this primitive
fashion for two years together. In the third year the grass has grown so
strong that cultivation is impossible. They then usually leave the land
for five years, during which the jungle again grows up, when it is again
cleared and cultivated as before. Their crops consist of rice and other
grains, a considerable variety of yams and roots, including ginger, beans
and vegetables, also cotton.

[Illustration: TATTOOING OF THE FACES OF CHIN WOMEN.]

The propensity of the Chins for raiding upon their weaker neighbours,
and especially upon the Burman villages, is that which has compelled the
British as the governing power to take account of them. Several military
expeditions have had to be organised in order to punish this raiding, and
to impress upon them the fact that it cannot be allowed. Many are the
tales of the sudden descents of the Chins upon the peaceful villagers in
the plains, robbing them of money, cattle and other property, and taking
away prisoners, who are removed to the Chin villages, and held to ransom.
If not quickly redeemed by their people they are often sold from village
to village, which renders it difficult to trace and recover them. Many
of these unfortunate captives have been rescued through our military
expeditions.

Perhaps the most extraordinary custom they have is that of tattooing the
faces of their women. The process is commenced when they are young, and
is gradually completed. Although the result is hideous to our eyes, it
is said that the beauty of a woman is judged by the style in which the
tattooing has been done. Thus fashion rules the world despite appearances
and common sense. The Yindu women are tattooed in lines across the face.
The Chinbôns tattoo jet black, and are the most repulsive in appearance,
though often fair-skinned. The Chinbôk method is to have several lines
down the forehead, the nose and the chin; and the cheeks are covered with
rows of little circles.




CHAPTER XI.

_BUDDHISM IN BURMA._


The greater part of the inhabitants of Burma are Buddhists. The Burman
race are so universally, except in the cases where Christianity has
gained a few. It is in Burma that Buddhism is found with the least
admixture of any other religion, and where it is followed with a more
thoroughgoing devotion perhaps than anywhere else. Even the Burman,
however, has never discarded in spirit, or even in form, the indigenous
_nat_ worship of his far-off ancestors. It may have little of outward
appearance, but it remains side by side with Buddhism to the present
day. In their numerous popular stories the nats play a prominent part,
the wicked ones performing all manner of mischievous pranks, the good
ones appearing at the opportune moment to succour the hero of the story,
usually some “_payaloung_,” or incipient Buddha, for the moment in peril
through the trials that have befallen him.

This hankering after the _nats_ is a significant fact. There is no God
in Buddhism, and yet a man must have a deity or deities of some kind.
The elaborate philosophy of Buddhism may occupy the intellect, and
dominate the religious life, but it cannot satisfy this natural craving
in man for God. Hence the worship and the fear of the _nats_, and the
many superstitious ceremonies to propitiate them. And hence, too, if
we mistake not, the strong tendency to plunge deeply into the occult,
and to claim intimacy with the world of spirits, which characterises
those Europeans and Americans who have discarded Christianity, and have
devised for themselves a system fashioned on the basis of Buddhism, for
their light and guidance.

Buddhism has been well described as “A proud attempt to create a faith
without a God, and to conceive a deliverance in which man delivers
himself.” Gautama, the future Buddha, and the founder of the Buddhist
religion, was born at Kapilavastu, a town about one hundred miles from
Benares, about 500 B.C. His father was the ruler of the Sakya tribe.
Gautama early showed a disposition for a retired, studious, ascetic,
contemplative life. His father wished to see him fit himself for the
career of a prince, and heaped upon him every luxury, but in vain. At
length we find the young prince, after many struggles between family
affection and his view of duty, secretly by night leaving his home of
luxury, his wife and child, exchanging his dress for the garments of a
mendicant, and commencing his long quest after truth. Six years he spent
in fastings and acts of penance. Then perceiving that mere ritual could
bring him to no new conceptions of truth, he changed his method, and
set himself to devise that system of philosophy which to this day is
associated with his name.

The ethics of Buddhism are grand, and for its noble conceptions of man’s
duty it well deserves the title of the finest system of heathenism ever
devised by man. But it fails altogether as a moral power. The account
it gives of man’s nature, and the problem of life generally, though
very elaborate, is erroneous and misleading. It knows nothing of a
Divine Creator and Father, a Divine Saviour, or a Divine Regenerator. It
proclaims no God, offers no Gospel of glad tidings, enjoins no prayer (in
our sense of the word, as petition), sets forth no sacrifice for sin,
holds out no hope of Divine help, no saving grace, no pardon, no renewal.
Man must work out everything by his own endeavours.

For forty-five years Buddha lived to preach his doctrines, winning many
converts, and he died at over eighty years of age greatly revered.

[Illustration: “IMAGES OF BUDDHA ARE EXTENSIVELY USED.”]

That Buddhism is an uninspired system of teaching is most clearly
indicated by its attempts at natural science. We need nothing more
than a glance at these absurdities to dispose at once of Buddha’s
claim to omniscience. His geography followed that of the Hindus, and
was no improvement upon it. Its only virtue is that it is very liberal
with numbers. It has its countless worlds, in the centre of which is
the mountain called Maha Meru, 1,344,000 miles in length, the same in
breadth, the same in depth beneath the sea, and rising to the same height
out of it. Its teaching upon such matters as eclipses, earthquakes and
the like, consists of the wildest of guesses.

It may be well to give the reader a brief outline of the religious
teachings of Buddhism. Buddhism denies the creation of the world. Matter
is eternal, and all the changes attending it are caused and regulated
by certain laws co-eternal with it. Matter and its laws are not under
the control of any being. Hence creation and a creator are out of the
question.

With such a formidable list of negations to begin with, it becomes a
matter of no small interest to inquire out of what materials this vast
system could possibly have been constructed. First, then, we have the
Buddhist ten commandments. Five of these are binding upon all:—

1. Not to take life.

2. Not to steal.

3. Not to commit adultery.

4. Not to lie.

5. Not to take that which intoxicates.

The other five are applicable only to the monastic order:—

6. Not to eat after midday.

7. Not to attend theatrical amusements, or dance, sing, or play on a
musical instrument.

8. Not to use garlands, scents, or cosmetics.

9. Not to stand, sit, or sleep on a platform or elevated place.

10. Not to receive gold or silver.

Besides these precepts there are many minor regulations, some of them
entering very minutely into the life of the laity, and others the monks.
There are rules for the conduct of parents and children, pupils and
teachers, husband and wife, friends and companions, masters and servants,
laymen and the religious order; in fact, considering the light Gautama
possessed, the moral teaching of Buddhism is of a very high order.

But what about the means of attaining to moral excellence? Here Buddhism,
it must be confessed, is found wanting. To conceive of a high state of
moral excellence is manifestly better within the reach of man’s unaided
mind, than to find out a way for the bulk of mankind in their frailty and
sinfulness to reach it.

In order to place before the reader any intelligible view of the Buddhist
way of salvation, it is essential that we consider first its teaching
concerning the nature and circumstances of man.

Buddhism is thoroughly pessimistic in its outlook. It teaches that life
is a misery, existence an evil. This doctrine is taught in the sacred
books with a wealth and ingenuity of illustration worthy of a more gay
and festive theme. The sentient being is “like a worm in the midst of a
nest of ants; like a lizard in the hollow of a bamboo that is burning at
both ends; like a living carcass, bereft of hands and feet, and thrown
upon the sand.” All beings are “entangled in a web of passions; tossed
upon the raging billows of a sea of ever-renewing existences; whirling
in a vortex of endless miseries; tormented incessantly by the stings of
concupiscence; sunk in a dark abyss of ignorance; the wretched victims of
an illusory, unsubstantial and unreal world.”

It is true these views of life do not seem unduly to distress the
followers of Gautama. The Burmans, the best of Buddhists, are as merry
and laughing a people as are to be found anywhere, and the burden of life
rests not more lightly upon any people than upon them. Nevertheless such
is the teaching. “_Anaiksa, Doakka, Anatta_” is the formula in Burmese:
“Transient, Sorrowful, Unreal.” The monk muses on this in his monastery.
The pious Buddhist repeats it to himself as he spends his spare time
smoking and meditating on the bench at his door, or strolling idly about,
telling off the beads of his rosary the while.

Seeing that life is necessarily a misery, and existence an evil,
the problem of life would seem to be how to bring existence to an
end. The Christian would say wait for the release of death, but two
formidable difficulties stand in the way, to prevent death proving any
release—namely, _Transmigration_ and _Karma_ (Burmese _Kan_).

Transmigration constantly renews sentient existence in a countless
succession of births and lives. Hence the polite form of the announcement
of a death is that the deceased has “changed his state of existence,”
that is, put off one existence and taken on another. This is not merely
a polite form of speech, but more correctly embodies the popular belief
than the mere statement that he has “died.” Moreover, in future births
man may rise and fall in the scale of existences; and as human life and
animal life are considered to be of the same nature, no difficulty is
experienced in readily believing that a man may become an animal, or
an animal may become a man in future births. Hence the scruple against
taking any kind of animal life amongst the Burmans, extending even to
vermin. Supposing transmigration to be true, it follows that if one kills
any animal, large or small, even the smallest insect, he may be taking
the life of his deceased grandfather, who has thus reappeared in the body.

This universal belief of the Buddhists in transmigration was curiously
illustrated quite recently in a court of justice in Burma. A mother and
her son came one day to the magistrate of their district and expressed a
desire to institute a suit. The case for the son, who was the plaintiff,
was as follows. Some years before, a certain man, it was stated, had
left in charge of the defendant some jewellery and a silk cloth for safe
keeping. While engaged in repairing the roof of a house he fell off and
died of the injury. The jewellery and cloth remained in the hands of the
defendant, and the suit was now instituted to recover the same.

What was the ground for this claim? Not that this boy or his mother
were related to the deceased, but that the boy was that identical man
in another birth. But how could he prove it? There was no difficulty in
proving this, at least to the satisfaction of the Buddhists. The boy
displayed upon his body certain marks, which those who knew the deceased
said were precisely similar to marks he bore. The mother, by a comparison
of, dates, sought to prove the date of the birth of the boy was just when
it would be supposing his claim to be true. But the most convincing
testimony of all was that the boy distinctly remembered the whole of the
circumstances happening in his former existence! The defendant admitted
receiving the silk cloth, but denied all knowledge of the jewellery. He
admitted that he believed the boy was the very man who left the cloth
with him, and was willing to return it if the boy paid a small debt of
eight annas borrowed on it by the owner. The boy said he remembered the
eight annas, but also insisted on the jewellery. Unfortunately for him
his good memory did not avail him; it was a British court of justice, not
a Burmese, and the magistrate had to dismiss the case as extending to
matters beyond his jurisdiction.

_Karma_ or _Kan_ (Burmese), or _Fate_, as it is sometimes rather
inadequately rendered, is that self-originating, self-operating,
inflexible law which necessitates and causes the working out of the
cumulative influences of merit and demerit; these separately producing in
succeeding births their full and appropriate effects, extending through
cycles of ages, the _Kan_ being modified from time to time by the passage
through these different births. Thus _Kan_ is not in any sense a Divine
Providence. It is a blind impersonal force that attends our destiny
through all the course of our many existences, and makes us to reap in
other births what we sow in this. It may be compared to a balance. In the
one side we are always putting in acts of merit, and in the other side
acts of demerit, and the _Kan_ goes on determining which preponderates,
and blindly producing its appropriate consequences until each has worked
itself out to the pleasant or the bitter end.

Undoubtedly this doctrine is a bold expedient for explaining the apparent
anomalies and wrongs in the distribution of happiness and misery in
this life; and although it is incapable alike of proof and of disproof,
it fully satisfies those who can believe it. A child, for instance, is
blind,—this is owing to his eye-vanity, lust of the eye in a former
birth,—but he has also unusual powers of hearing; this is because he
loved in a former birth to listen to the preaching of the law. Thus the
theory can always be made to fit the facts, for it is derived from them.
But it satisfies the Oriental mind none the less for that, and it is the
belief of millions of Hindus and Buddhists to-day.

_Nirvana_ (Burmese _Neibbân_) is the state of complete deliverance from
further births and deaths. So long as existence lasts evil and suffering
must continue, and there is no hope of blessedness until conscious
individuality has become wholly eliminated, and the individual has
arrived at that state where further births are no longer possible. This
means practically annihilation; but it is so much easier to do wrong than
to do right, and it takes so long for _Kan_ to work out its result, that
_Neibbân_ becomes, by the ordinary way, so distant and so difficult of
attainment as to be out of reach to the vast majority of the human race.

If Buddhism ended there, and if nothing had been devised to relieve this
strain of seeking after an all but hopeless and well-nigh impossible
good, it would have been of all creeds the most pessimistic and
miserable. The mind must needs have revolted from an outlook so gloomy,
and we may safely affirm that it would in that case never have numbered
its votaries by hundreds of millions as it does to-day. For it just
amounts to this, that “Sin and its consequences follow man as the wheels
of the cart follow the legs of the bullocks,” and there is no Saviour and
no salvation that he can seek outside of himself.

But just at this point the doctrine of works of merit steps in and offers
its hopes to the Buddhist, and seems to bring the attainment of future
good at once within the sphere of the practicable. According to this,
man can be continually improving his _Kan_ by so-called works of merit,
and he may hope, with comparatively little trouble, to make his merits
outweigh his demerits, and thereby improve his lot in future existences.

See that row of waterpots under the shade of that great tree upon a dusty
road, set upon a neat stand, with a neatly carved roof constructed over
them, with a ladle to drink out of, and each of the pots covered with a
tin cover to keep out the dust and insects. It is privately constructed
and presented for public use, a work of merit; all done to get what they
are often thinking and talking about—_koothoh_.

What is the meaning of all this lavishing on the monks of food daily,
and various offerings, including almost everything except money, which
they are under vows not to touch? Answer, _koothoh_. So with all alms and
offerings to monks, to the poor, to dogs, or crows; so with good works
of every imaginable description. You may acquire merit by conforming to
the ceremonies, by attending the festivals, by listening to the reading
of the Law, by striking the pagoda bells, by buying and lighting pagoda
tapers, by plastering gold leaf on the pagoda, by contributing to the
repairs of the sacred edifices, by showing lights at the festival of
lighting in October, and by many, many ways. As might be expected, when
the acquiring of merit is so important a matter, there are many avenues
opened to it.

Though of course you have not kept all the laws, yet if you have gone out
of your way a little to do something more than keep one of them it gives
you merit. The care for animal life offers great scope in that direction.
An English soldier whilst fishing caught a tortoise and was taking it
home, when a Burman met him, bought the tortoise for a rupee, and took it
back to its native element. He would expect to gain merit by that. Men
have been known to make a regular trade of snaring little birds in the
jungle, and bringing them to the bazaar to sell to the merit seekers, who
buy them merely to set them free.

Many works of merit involve great expense, such as the digging of a
well, the erection of a bridge, a _zayat_ or rest-house, a monastery, a
pagoda. Judging by the enormous number of these sacred buildings in Upper
Burma, it would appear that this is a favourite way of seeking merit.
The builder of a pagoda is honoured with a special title attached to
his name, and he is understood to be in a fair way for _Nirvana_. This
seeking after merit is practically the most predominant aim in Burmese
religious life.

So fixed is this belief in merit, that when the Burmans see the English
so intent upon opening up the country, making roads and railways,
metalling streets and lighting them, building hospitals and markets,
constructing irrigation works, and carrying out a multitude of other
necessary and useful efforts of public utility, they measure us by their
own bushel, and remark that there will be great merit to the Government
and its officers by means of these things. What other motive could men
have for taking so much pains and trouble for the public good, if not to
accumulate merit?

In elaborating this law relating to merit, Gautama was preparing the
sheet anchor of his system. It is that mainly by which it abides, and
retains its influence over its millions of followers until this day.

[Illustration: “IN THE MORNING THE MONKS INVARIABLY GO FORTH CARRYING THE
ALMS-BOWLS TO COLLECT THEIR DAILY FOOD FROM THE PEOPLE.”]

Every false religion, however, whatever master mind designed it, must
show, somewhere or other, its weak places. It is manifestly a weak place
in Buddhism that alms and works of merit may so easily outweigh whatever
demerit may attach through real crimes and sins, and that, too, without
any repentance or reformation on the part of the offender. This also
makes the attainment of merit largely dependent on the pecuniary means
and influence at the disposal of the individual. A work may be very easy
for a king or a rich man which would be utterly impossible for a poor
man. To the Christian mind this seems very unequal and unfair, but to
the Burman it presents no stumbling-block. Supposing we do see great
inequalities in money, or any other temporal advantages that men possess.
Be it so. It arises from differences in their _Kan_, and that depends on
what took place in previous births. One’s _Kan_ is not a thing to rail
against, but to submit to.

It might be thought that as Christianity is so evidently superior to
Buddhism as a religious system, it should be an easy matter to get them
to discard their religion and accept the religion of Christ. But this is
very far from being the case. The superiority is not apparent to a mind
sophisticated by a lifelong familiarity with only the one religion, and
it is only, as a rule, perceived after a prolonged and impartial study
and comparison of the two has opened the mind. This is the great reason
for educational work. It is a very difficult matter to make the votaries
of an elaborate system like Buddhism see the superiority of Christ over
Buddha; they are more than contented with what they have.

Besides this, we ought to remember that Buddhism has everything on
its side that tends to make a religion powerful and influential. It
has a concrete existence, and very much of outward and visible form
and appearance; it is in possession; it has numbers, a voluminous
literature, a definite and consistent system of philosophy. It has plenty
of popular observances and popular enthusiasm. It is cleverly adapted to
man’s natural desire to work out his own salvation. It is most powerfully
sustained and buttressed in the regard and confidence of the people by
its very numerous monastic institutions, which are recruited from all
classes of the people, from the prince to the peasant, for every male
Burman must be a monk, for a longer or a shorter time, at some period of
his life.




CHAPTER XII.

_BURMESE RELIGIOUS INSTITUTIONS AND USAGES._


The Burmans, like most nations of the East, are essentially a religious
people, and pay great regard to the religious usages and institutions in
which they have been brought up.

Chief amongst these is the monastic institution of Buddhism. Buddha was
not only a great philosopher and thinker, but a great organiser too, and
he provided in the monastic system a social bond of union that knits
the entire community together in the Buddhist faith. This is made more
obvious by the fact that every male Burman must be a monk at some time in
his life, for a longer or shorter period, otherwise the demerit attaching
to him would so overbalance his merits, as to render it impossible for
him ever to make any improvement in his future existences. His ill deeds
would swell the sum of his demerits, but no act of charity or pious
devotion would be recorded to his advantage. Hence, in Upper Burma,
almost every youth dons the yellow robe and becomes a monk. It may be
for a week, a month, or a season or two, or it may be for many years,
or it may prove to be lifelong. The longer they stay in the monastery
the more sanctity attaches to them. But the Buddhist monk, unlike some
other monks, is at liberty to terminate his monastic vows at pleasure,
and return to ordinary life. The monks reckon the continuance of their
monastic condition by the number of _Wahs_ spent in the monastery, the
_Wah_ being the annual recurrence of a kind of Buddhist Lent, extending
from July to October.

This recruiting of the monks from the entire population—so different
from Hinduism, which acknowledges a rigidly exclusive, priestly
caste—immensely strengthens the hold Buddhism has on the people, and
widens the popular basis upon which it rests. In my missionary life
amongst the Hindus in Ceylon, I have observed in reading and expounding
the parable of “The Good Samaritan” to a heathen congregation, a great
readiness to apply, of their own accord, the cases of the Priest and the
Levite, who passed by on the other side, to their own Brahmin priests,
and they were always ready to take sides against them as quite a separate
caste; but there can never be the same alienation between monks and laity
in a Buddhist land like Burma, where the monks are their own kith and kin.

The monasteries are very extensively spread over the country. Mandalay,
at the time of the annexation, was officially stated to have close upon
6,000 monks, and you can visit scarcely any town or village, however
small or remote, which has not its monastic establishment. The monastery
is always the best building in the place, and has the cleanest enclosure
of any house in the village, and there is an air of sanctity and repose
about it. The monks are very approachable. The stranger, whether native
or foreigner, is always made welcome; indeed, that is a characteristic of
the Burmans everywhere, that they receive strangers freely and affably,
and being free from those caste scruples so usual amongst the Hindus, one
is not for ever fearful of transgressing their notions of propriety, or
unwittingly hurting their dignity. As the monasteries are spacious, and
often supplied with additional _zayats_ or rest-houses, it will rarely
happen in travelling that they will be unable or unwilling to assign the
stranger some humble place of rest, where he may tie up his pony, eat
his food, and spread his mat and pillow for the night. To the poor and
destitute the monastery is a place of relief, where they can always hope
to obtain a little food out of that which is daily given to the monks in
their house to house morning visits.

It must be frankly admitted that the monasteries of the country do a
useful work in the way of imparting elementary education. To them is
chiefly due the creditable fact that there are comparatively few of the
men who cannot read and write; and this does much to bind the people to
the support of the Order. But the education scarcely ever goes beyond
the most elementary stage. They learn to read Burmese, and they learn
to repeat a few Pali prayers and forms of devotion. Pali is the sacred
language; very few even of the monks understand the meaning.

On the other hand, the monks’ life is a very idle one. They live in
perfect ease, all their wants are supplied by the people, and they are
not expected to work at all, except some of them at teaching. There are
usually far more of them in the monastery than are required for that
purpose, so that they spend a vast amount of idle time, and it is thought
by many that the indolent, easy-going habits, and the lack of discipline
and enterprise the Burmans display as a nation, is largely owing to the
idle life of the monastery, which is continually before their eyes, for
there they receive their teaching when young.

The Buddhist monk is not a minister of religion in our sense. He has no
pastoral charge. He is for himself, and for his own deliverance, and the
merit he acquires he shares with nobody. He may occasionally be called to
attend this or that function, when the presence of a monk is customary,
or he may expound the law occasionally, if he so choose, reciting some of
the sacred writings for that purpose; but he undertakes no responsibility
for the guidance of the souls of others. In Buddhism a man must save
himself, and nothing that a monk or any one else may do can alter the
balance of his merits and demerits. Even if the monk be summoned to the
couch of a dying man, as he is sometimes, it is not that he may speak
words of consolation, or offer him the comforts of religion. It is merely
that the presence of the holy man may drive away the evil spirits that
would be liable to haunt the place on such an occasion.

The habits of the monastic Order are very simple. In the morning, after
the few Pali prayers have been uttered, the monks invariably go forth
through the village, attended by the boys carrying the alms-bowls, to
collect their daily food from the people. Not that they beg. There is
no occasion for that. Their rules forbid them to ask; and in going from
door to door amongst their own people they do not ask. But privately,
I must own, I have found occasionally amongst the Buddhist monks of
my acquaintance some of the most arrant cadgers I ever met with. Few,
indeed, are the matrons who do not put something in the way of food
in the alms-bowl. Nor do they thank the people for what they receive.
They would never think of doing so. In fact, the obligation is all on
the other side. The monks are conferring a favour by giving the people
the opportunity to do this work of high merit by means of their alms. A
useful hint, by the way, to collectors for good and useful objects in
England!

In their walks abroad, and in the performance of such functions as bring
them into mixed companies, many of the monks carry a large palm-leaf fan
in their hands, in order that, as celibate ascetics, they may shut off
the sight of feminine charms from their eyes.

The education given at the monasteries is very poor, but the acquisition
of any learning at all by the children is a matter for wonder, when we
consider how poor the instruction is. What they do succeed in learning
is not so much by means of teaching, as we understand it, but is almost
entirely due to the system of noisy repetition of the lessons, at the
full pitch of their voices in unison, in which all the children engage,
the elder ones leading, and the younger following. For this reason the
little learning imparted at these schools is of a mechanical sort, and
lacks intelligence. Arithmetic is very low indeed. Geography, if taught
at all, must of course square with the orthodox Buddhist cosmogony; and
as there is much that is doubtful about that, it is perhaps best left
alone, and is accordingly. Burmese history is abundant in quantity, but
in quality it only consists of what we call fiction, and has but a poor
foothold upon fact, and is left out of the curriculum. All other branches
of study are unknown, except a little of Pali in the form of devotions,
which, however, is mostly taught in mere parrot fashion.

[Illustration: “THERE THE PEOPLE ASSEMBLE OF AN EVENING, AND ARE TO BE
SEEN IN THE OPEN SPACE AROUND THE PAGODA, ON THEIR KNEES IN THE OPEN AIR,
REPEATING THEIR DEVOTIONS IN PALI.”]

The Director of Public Instruction in Burma told me a good story of his
first visit to Mandalay. He had been calling on the great _Thathanabine_
or Buddhist Archbishop of Burma, and had sought to impress upon that
venerable ecclesiastic the desirability of improving the education given
at the monastery schools. He mentioned arithmetic and geography as very
desirable subjects to be taught, offering to supply teachers already
trained and able to teach them. One of the attendant monks, an elderly
brother of the yellow robe, remarked that for his part he could not see
any great need for learning geography, especially now that the English
Government had been good enough to construct a railway. “If you want to
go anywhere all you have to do is to take your ticket and get into the
train.” Where was the use of learning geography?

The honour paid to the monks by the people is quite extraordinary. In the
Burmese language the commonest acts of life as performed by the monks are
spoken of with respectful expressions, which are never applied to similar
acts as done by the common people. The oldest layman honours the youngest
monk, and gives place to him. The ordinary posture before a monk is down
on their knees, and often on their elbows also, with the palms of the
hands joined together, and raised as if in supplication, and the title
“_Paya_” is used—the very name which has to do duty for the deity.

An instance is on record of a venerable monk being called from Mandalay
to settle a dispute between two parties concerning some religious
point, in a town on the banks of the Irrawaddy. On his arrival the
whole population lined both sides of the path up to the monastery, and
kneeling, they loosed down their long black hair, for the men as well as
the women wear it long, and spread it across the path, so that he walked
all the distance from the river bank to the monastery on human tresses.

The pagodas are the ordinary resorts of the people as places of worship;
not all of them, however, for the great majority are merely erected as
works of merit, and never attain any celebrity as places of worship;
only the chief and most notable shrines. There the people assemble of
an evening, and are to be seen in the flagged open space around the
pagoda, on their knees in the open air, repeating their devotions in
Pali. Though many of them come together, it is not of the nature of
congregational worship, nor is any one appointed to lead their devotions.
It is each one for himself. There is no prayer in our sense of that
term, that is, petition. With no God to address, what place is there
for prayer? Buddhism knows no higher being than the Buddha, and he is
gone, twenty-four centuries ago, into Nirvana. The sentences they utter
in Pali consist of expressions in praise of Buddha, the Law, and the
Monastic Order. Images of Buddha are extensively used, but for all that,
the people can hardly be called idolaters. The burning of candles and of
incense at worship time is customary.

The Burmese “duty days,” of which there are four in the month, are
observed on the eighth of the crescent, the full, the eighth of the
waning, and the change of the moon. These are kept more strictly as
worship days during what is called the _Wah_ than at any other time.
That is the period from July to October, which is observed as a time of
special fasting and solemnity, ever since the days of their founder,
who used to spend this, the rainy season, when travelling about in
India is scarcely practicable, in retirement and meditation. During the
_Wah_ there is a cessation of all festivities, and of the theatrical
performances of which the Burmans are so fond.

At the end of the _Wah_ there is a time of general rejoicing. For some
days before amusements are observed to be in progress in the streets.
Effigies of animals, very well executed, are carried about. Here a
buffalo of gigantic size, made of some light material, cunningly finished
and coloured to the life, with horns and hide and all complete, is seen
walking about on two pairs of human legs, the said legs being clad in the
very baggy dark trousers worn by the Shans; its head balanced so as to
swing with the walk in a most realistic and natural manner.

Yonder, in the Chinese temple, a huge pasteboard demon is seen disporting
himself, with head of frightful aspect and enormous size, and body of
cloth. You may freely walk in; and as you look around and admire the
excellence of the building and the expensive and choice furniture, lamps
and decorations, you may also see the huge creature writhing about, with
all manner of contortions, to the deafening din of drums and the clash
of cymbals. Somehow Orientals seem to be able to combine amusement
with devotion. My three little children who have walked in with me,
scared almost out of their wits with the noise, and still more with the
portentous sight of the demon, promptly take to their heels and rush out
of the temple, and cannot be induced to return, so I go out in search
of them. At the corner of the next street an enormous representation of
a tiger, ten times life size, in teeth and claws complete, and with a
most ferocious aspect, has been glaring at the passers-by for some days.
And, as you look, here comes a rude likeness of a gigantic lady ten feet
high, who, however, seems to move along very ungracefully, and bows very
stiffly in acknowledgment of the cheers of the crowd. The Chinese are
particularly fond of getting up a very brilliantly executed figure of a
serpent, in great splendour and in very bright colours, many yards long,
which is borne high overhead through the streets on these occasions, with
quite a procession. This particular show seems to afford scope for high
art in representing the wrigglings of the monster as it is carried along.

But this is all only preparatory to the festival called _Wah-gyoot_
(literally “the release from the Wah”). It is a festival of lights. For
three nights the whole city of Mandalay is one blaze of illumination.
Every house has its complement of candles or oil lamps; the rich in
keeping with their means, and the poor according to their poverty. At
that season the air is still, there is little or no wind, all the lights
are out of doors and burn brightly. The streets are lit up with candles
at every ten paces; the pagodas are effectively illuminated with hundreds
of lights far up into their spires. Little children are trundling
extemporised carts with bamboo wheels, each carrying a tiny illumination,
covered with a lamp of thin, coloured paper. In addition to the house
illuminations, paper lanterns are quite the fashion in China Street,
where the well-known ingenuity of John Chinaman produces fantastic shapes
in various colours, representing sundry animals, fishes, ships and what
not. On the great river, as soon as it grows dark, the villagers row out
into the middle of the stream and set adrift multitudes of oil lamps,
each fastened to a little float of bamboo or plantain stem. Thousands of
them are sent out by each village, so that the whole Irrawaddy is one
blaze of twinkling lights.

Another very prominent and popular festival of the Burmans is the Water
Feast, which occurs at their New Year in April. For two or three days
at that time “the compliments of the season” consist in walking up to
you in the street, or even in your own house, and discharging a jar of
clean water over you, with the expression, “I will do homage to you with
water”; and it would be considered very bad form to show any resentment
for this kind and polite attention. It is obvious that such a custom as
this must afford great scope to the rollicking Burmans of both sexes. It
leads to abundance of larking and merriment in the streets. Everybody who
ventures forth stands a great chance of a thorough drenching. Fortunately
it occurs in April, the time of the sun’s greatest power, and the
sweltering heat renders it less of an inconvenience than it would be in a
colder climate.

There is nothing the Burmans are more scrupulous about than the taking
of life. A mother has been seen to pick up the scorpion that stung her
child, between two pieces of bamboo, and merely drop it gently outside
the door. Twice when I have found a deadly cobra lurking about the house
where the children were playing—the most venomous of snakes, whose bite
is death—and have asked a Burmese servant to help me to kill it, he has
declined, and I have had to kill it myself. But though the Burman will
not kill a snake, he will not scruple to take it home to cook and eat it
after some other person has killed it. Animal food seldom comes amiss to
them, whether it has been killed by another or has died of itself. They
are not very choice in their food.

Mandalay swarms with thousands of half-starved, mangy, miserable
animals—nobody’s dogs. No matter how they increase and multiply, no
Burman is willing to “put them out of their misery”; the firm belief in
transmigration prevents this. I have known half a dozen such dreadful
creatures quarter themselves uninvited on the Mission premises. One of
the half-dozen, a savage brute, living under the school on the Mission
premises, one day bit a little Burman boy, and tore his bare arm very
badly. This was too much for me. Fearing it might do further mischief,
and might even be mad, I waylaid and shot it. The Burmans thought I had
done very wrong. Their tender care for animals often appears in touching
forms. I have noticed a Burman coolie engaged in mixing mortar, on
finding he had brought a number of tadpoles from the neighbouring pond
in his bucket of water, take them all out with great care, and carry
them back to the pond, though it was 150 yards away and he had to go on
purpose. And yet, so strangely inconsistent is human nature, there are
perhaps few countries in the world, with any pretensions to civilisation,
where human life is held so cheap as in Burma, and where the people
have commonly such a propensity to the crime of dacoity or robbery
with violence, and often with murder. And yet, again, with strange
inconsistency, the coarse and hardened criminal, the Burman dacoit, who
has imbrued his hands in his neighbour’s blood more than once, will
scruple to harm the vermin that infests his couch.

Some of the great Buddhist shrines in Burma are buildings of wonderful
magnificence. The Shwê Dagohn Pagoda at Rangoon is one of the most
important and sacred. It is considered to be over two thousand years old.
Originally it was very small, but now it rises to a height of 370 feet,
or a little higher than St. Paul’s Cathedral, and is a quarter of a mile
in circumference at the base. It is situated on the top of a very high
hill, of which the summit has been, at vast labour and expense, made into
a level platform, and carefully paved. This immense platform is partly
occupied by many smaller pagodas, resting places for worshippers, and
chapels containing colossal images of Buddha; and considerable open space
is left for the immense crowds of worshippers that assemble there. In the
centre rises the great pagoda in the usual bell shape, one vast, solid
mass of masonry terminating in a spire. Four flights of stone steps lead
up from the plain beneath, one on each side of the hill. On the summit
of the pagoda is the _htee_, or gilt iron framework in the form of an
umbrella, with multitudes of gold and silver bells, richly bejewelled,
which tinkle with every passing breeze. The _htee_ was presented by
King Mindohn, the father of King Theebaw, and cost £50,000. The pagoda
itself with the adjacent buildings must have cost, from first to last,
a fabulous sum. This pagoda, like many others of the principal ones,
is covered with pure gold leaf. Every few years it has to be regilt.
Sometimes this has been done by some particular king, as a great work of
merit. One king is said to have spent his own weight of gold upon it.
In 1887 there was a regilding by public subscription. The accounts when
published showed an expenditure of some £9,000; and this money, be it
known to all Christians, was raised at once, without leaving any debt
for the next generation to defray. And not only so, but it was raised in
money actually contributed directly for this purpose. There was no need
to resort to any of the well-known, artful, coaxing methods of raising
funds, which have to be adopted in more civilised countries. There was
not even a bazaar, not even a raffle! I have no hesitation in stating
that it is my belief that Buddhists spend on their religion, in edifices,
on the support of the monks, and on other works of charity, much more per
head in proportion to their means than the average of Christians spend on
theirs.

Another remarkable thing about the Shwê Dagohn Pagoda is its bell, 14
feet high, 7½ feet across, and weighing 42 tons, the third largest
bell in the world. This bell has a history. After the second Burmese
war in 1853, the English made an attempt to carry it off as a trophy
to Calcutta, but ere they shipped it the monster toppled over into the
Rangoon river, and sank to the bottom. With the appliances then at hand
they were unable to get it up again. After a time the Burmans made
request that they might have it.

Yes, they might have the bell _if they could get it_.

They succeeded in raising it out of the river, and hauled it back in
triumph to the position it occupies to-day.

[Illustration: GREAT BELL AT THE MENGOHN PAGODA.]

When great shrines like this exist in Burma, on such a vast scale and
with such splendour, it is not much to wonder at if there should be some
specimens of unfinished and abortive undertakings, by which the kings
of Burma, in their ambition to obtain great merit and a name, sought
to equal or excel the great shrines of antiquity, but which had to be
relinquished because the resources, even of despotic kings, are not
unlimited. Such a one is the great unfinished Mengohn Pagoda, which is
built in a pleasant spot on the right bank of the Irrawaddy, about nine
miles above Mandalay. It is supposed that this must be the largest mass
of solid brickwork in the world, and it is now nearly a century old. It
covers a square of 450 feet, and has therefore an area of 4¾ acres. Its
height is 155 feet, which is much less than it would have been had it
gone on to completion. An Englishman, Captain Cox, was there, and saw
the beginning of this huge structure. He says in his book that there was
a great square chamber built in the basement of the pagoda as usual,
to receive the offerings of the king and the people, and amongst many
peculiarly Burmese and Buddhist articles, such as models of precious
relics in gold caskets, and gold and silver miniature pagodas and
images, the miscellaneous collection included an article of Western
manufacture—a soda-water machine, at that time almost as great a novelty
in England as it was in Burma. Close by this large unfinished pagoda
is the second largest bell in the world; the largest is at Moscow.
An earthquake, which occurred in 1839, cracked this enormous mass of
brickwork, and dislodged a portion of it; but so solid is it that it
would take many earthquakes utterly to destroy it.

Notwithstanding the failure to complete this gigantic enterprise, it
did not deter a later king, the father of King Theebaw, from attempting
a still larger and more ambitious effort. Four miles to the east of
Mandalay there was to have been erected the Yankeen-toung Pagoda, built
of stone quarried from the adjoining hill; and it was to have been larger
considerably than the unfinished Mengohn. The whole kingdom was laid
under contribution to furnish men to labour by turns, a few months at a
time, on this pious work.

After four years’ labour, so vast was the extent that the basement had
only reached a height of four feet. At this stage a French engineer was
called in to make an estimate and report upon it. His calculation was
that if 5,000 men worked every day on the building, it might at that rate
be finished in eighty-four years. It never went beyond the basement.

Since the annexation of Upper Burma, the practical British mind, finding
the Yankeen-toung stone eminently suitable for road-making, and seeing
that the roads in Mandalay, with its 188,000 people, were not, up to that
time, made of anything better than black clay, has devoted this stone,
intended for the pagoda, with which King Mindohn had purposed, so to
speak, paving his own way to Nirvana, to the humbler, but more generally
useful enterprise of mending the people’s ways about the town.




CHAPTER XIII.

_THE BURMANS._


Of the forty or more different races and tribes dwelling in Burma and
on its frontiers, the Burmans are the leading race: first, in point of
numbers, for they far exceed any of the others; also as regards position
and advantages, for they naturally, as the leading race, have come to
occupy all the best and most fertile soil, all the tracts of country
lying between the great mountain ranges, the valleys of the Irrawaddy and
the Chindwin rivers; and still more in respect of their prestige, for
they have long been the ruling race of this region, and their language
is far more widely diffused than any other. Most of the other indigenous
races of Burma, as we have seen, are demon worshippers, uncivilised,
without a written language, and with many and wide diversities from the
Burmans. The Burmans, however, have an ancient civilisation, an elaborate
religious system, a philosophy and a literature, and with regard to the
arts, handicrafts and conveniences of ordinary life, are quite on a par
with the Hindus. The present chapter applies to the Burman race.

The Burmans are of Mongolian origin, in common with the Chinese, Siamese
and other inhabitants of the Indo-Chinese peninsula. Their features
plainly show this, especially the almond-shaped eye, the slightly
flattened nose and the almost entire absence of hair on the faces of the
men. They are lighter in complexion than the majority of the natives of
India, and slightly browner than the Chinese.

They show a marked contrast in many respects to the races of India,
especially in the entire absence of caste. The king was the fountain of
all position in the country. He made and unmade nobles at his sole will
and pleasure, so that there is no hereditary rank or nobility. There is
also no priestly caste like the Brahmins of India; the Buddhist monks
are recruited from all classes, from the royal family downwards. Except
the pagoda slaves, a class doomed to hereditary servitude in connection
with the more important sacred shrines, and with a few other trifling
exceptions, the Burmans as a people have all the avenues of native life
and privilege open to them. This renders them less fastidious and more
approachable than the people of India, and does away with the withering,
blighting effects of caste. It renders them less conservative also, and
makes them more ready to take up new ideas.

The Burmese language, in common with the Mongolian languages generally,
is monosyllabic, each word consisting of one syllable. Of course the
progress of all languages tends to unite words, and in the majority
of languages this tendency has resulted in the original monosyllables
becoming so united and changed as to be not easily capable of separation.
But in Burmese and other monosyllabic languages very many names and words
are still of one syllable, and even where they are of two or three, each
syllable seems to show a sturdy vigour of its own, and a determination to
preserve its individuality complete, and not sink into the position of a
mere servant of its neighbours. In pronunciation or reading of Burmese
this appears in a marked degree; and in writing Burmese names one always
feels inclined to follow the pronunciation, and insert the hyphen between
the syllables. Even where there is any disposition of the syllables to
cleave together in the formation of words, in anything like a permanent
form, they readily fall asunder the moment they are touched for the
purpose of critical examination.

[Illustration: SPECIMEN OF BURMESE TYPE.]

To compensate for the convenience of expression afforded in most
languages by inflections, much is made in the Burmese of particles.
Indeed, the grammar of the language, which is very simple, consists
largely of the classification of the monosyllables that serve as
particles, and a great deal of variety of meaning is expressed by tones.
The alphabet is derived from the ancient Nagari, the common source
of the alphabets of many of the Indian languages, but the characters
themselves belong exclusively to the Burmese tongue, except that they
have been adopted for the Shan and Karen languages. The alphabet is
called the _them-bon-gyee_ or great basket of learning, and it well
deserves the name; for what with the 10 vowels, the 32 consonants, the
vowel-consonants to the number of 10 × 32, and a very numerous series
of characters to express many combinations of letters, it really is a
very great basketful indeed, and occupies 28 pages of a closely printed
pamphlet with the characters alone.

One of the difficulties to a foreigner in picking up the spoken language
is the Burmese custom of dropping the sound of the final consonants
of syllables. This is not, as it is with some English people, a bad
habit, but is sanctioned by the usage of the language. In the grammar of
the language some interesting features appear. Thus in many verbs the
intransitive is changed into the transitive by the mere aspiration of an
initial consonant: as _kya-thee_, to fall; _khya-thee_, to throw down,
or cause to fall; _loht-thee_, to be free; _hloht-thee_, to set free.
The adjective does not precede but follows the noun it qualifies. The
accusative is followed by the verb that governs it.

Burmese abounds with honorific expressions. First of all is the
ever-recurring ordinary honorific form _daw_, placed after nouns and
verbs, to indicate that the thing or action named has to do with some
person out of the common order. The first personal pronoun has three
distinct forms, so that a speaker is able, by choosing one or other of
these three, in a word, as it were, to place himself on an eminence
above, on an equality with, or in a position beneath the person he is
addressing; a great convenience, surely. What could the framers of our
own poor language have been thinking about, to neglect to secure for us
such an obvious advantage as that?

The second personal pronoun is even richer, for it counts no less than
six well-defined gradations of expression, not to mention several
more supernumerary forms, that may be employed if the regular forms
of the pronoun are not enough. By means of these the person addressed
may be treated with veneration, gently flattered, addressed with easy
familiarity, made to feel his relative littleness, scolded, or abused,
as occasion may require. And all this variety of expression in the mere
choice of the pronoun in the second person! What a language it must be in
the mouth of a competent person!

Again, with regard to “Yes,” our affirmative of assent, the Burmese
can vary its form, by means of well-sanctioned idioms in constant use,
from something equivalent to the American “That’s so,” through several
more and more polite affirmatives, up to “What you say is appropriate,
my Lord,” an expression reserved of course for the king, the monks,
some respectable European, or Burman of distinction. Where such various
expressions would sound very stilted in English, the Burmese idiom can
give them as ordinary forms of politeness. Thus again, the ordinary man
is said to “eat”; the monk “nourishes his body with the alms of the
pious”; but the king tops them all, for he “ascends to the lordly board.”
It is asserted of a man when he dies merely that he has “changed the
bawâ,” _i.e._, left one state of existence and gone into another; but in
the case of a monk we may safely go further and say, as the idiom does,
that he has “returned to the blissful seats”; the king, when he dies, is
politely said to have “ascended to the village of the _nats_” (beings
superior to men). These Oriental peculiarities of language and idiom
are interesting and amusing, and the frequent discovery of them, in the
course of his studies, does much to compensate the foreigner for the
drudgery involved in learning the language thoroughly, provided he is not
devoid of the sense of humour, and can appreciate them when he finds them.

But perhaps the chief oddity of the Burmese language to the foreigner
is the use of numeral auxiliaries. In using numbers you make quite a
business of it, by adding in the case of each of the things mentioned, a
special term descriptive of the class of things to which they belong. It
is on this wise: first, you name the things spoken of, then the number,
and finally the appropriate numeral auxiliary. Thus if you wish to say
“six dogs” you must put it in this form to be idiomatic, “dogs six
_living creatures_.”

    Five horses = “horses five _beasts of burden_.”
    Four men    = “men four _rational beings_.”
    Three monks = “monks three _highly respectable characters_.”
    Two rupees  = “rupees two _flat things_.”

Always to have to supply, on the spur of the moment, whilst speaking, the
correct classification of the objects named in making use of numbers,
seems to the foreigner a very needless and arbitrary demand, and so new
to him that, until he gets accustomed to it, he is constantly liable
to overlook it. The classification of things made in this way does not
extend, however, beyond some twenty-one categories. In addition to those
named there are things in a line, things in a circle, things long and
straight, things nearly round or cubical, things which are used as tools,
trees and plants (which class includes hair!), and some others. But
the classification of things provided for by the use of these numeral
auxiliaries is neither very scientific nor very complete, for the list
is soon exhausted; and when you come to such things as chairs, bedsteads
and a multitude of other things which come under none of the recognised
classes of things, they are all slumped under the head of “individual
things,” which is disappointing after the hopes raised of a complete
classification of all things.

Burmese literature is largely devoted to Buddhism. Of popular works the
most common are the _Zats_, stories of embryo Buddhas, and what they did
in their different births, before they arrived at that state. Here is
obviously much scope for fancy in tracing the buddings of their wisdom
and glory, and all their miraculous adventures and deliverances, together
with much about the _nats_ or spirits supposed to haunt the universe.
Christian literature is miserably meagre as yet, and there is much scope
and need for more. All Christian workers, and indeed all foreigners who
aim at learning Burmese, are deeply indebted to Dr. Judson, the first
missionary of the American Baptist Mission, for his excellent translation
of the whole Bible, and for his English-Burmese and Burmese-English
dictionaries, his Burmese grammar, and other minor works. To multitudes
in England and America Dr. Judson is famous for what he suffered; but
amongst those who know and can appreciate his literary work, that alone
is sufficient to entitle him to an imperishable fame.

[Illustration: “THE BUDDHIST MONASTERIES ARE FINE, SUBSTANTIAL ERECTIONS,
MASSIVE, SPACIOUS AND VERY RICH IN DECORATION.”]

Although there are in Burma so many pagodas, monasteries and other
religious buildings, which are fine, substantial erections, massive,
spacious and very rich in decoration, the dwellings of the people are,
as a rule, very poor in accommodation, and are of bamboo, the flimsiest
of material, and specially liable to destruction by fire. The posts
of the house are of teak, the floor is of bamboos, and raised from two
to six feet from the ground, the walls are of bamboo matting not much
thicker than stout brown paper, and the roof is of bamboo thatch. These
houses, though so slightly made, are warm enough for the climate. The
floor especially seems very frail to a stranger, made of half bamboos,
round side upwards, and lashed together with strips of cane. It gives
and sways under your feet as you walk over it in an alarming manner,
but the bamboos, though they bend, do not easily break. The Burmans
like that kind of a house. It is cool and airy. The floor shows a space
between each bamboo, and those spaces are particularly convenient for
an easy-going people. All kinds of miscellaneous things not required,
including scraps and remnants of food, can be dropped through the
floor, so that it requires no sweeping. The mighty host of ownerless,
homeless, starving dogs that roam over the town can be safely trusted to
find anything there is to eat, and they are not of dainty appetite. All
cooking has to be done outside the house, either in a separate building,
or more commonly in a little square hole dug in the ground for the
purpose, to prevent, if possible, sparks being blown about by the high
winds that prevail at certain seasons of the year.

Owing to the extremely inflammable nature of the buildings in Burma,
fires are of frequent occurrence, and are exceedingly destructive. In
addition to the ordinary risk from cooking fires and paraffin oil lamps,
the people are exceedingly careless in handling fire, and they are all
smokers. They smoke a kind of cigar made of chopped tobacco mixed with
some light woody substance, and enclosed in the outer leaf of the maize
cob, or some other leaf used for the same purpose, and these cigars drop
sparks in all directions. The end of the hot, dry season, in April and
May, when everything is like tinder, and when the high winds prevail, is
the most destructive time for fires, and every year at that time they
are of daily occurrence in Mandalay, and sometimes scores and sometimes
hundreds of bamboo houses are swept away. During the four years I have
lived in Mandalay I have known many large portions of the town destroyed
time after time.

The most destructive fires that have occurred since the annexation
took place on March 31st, 1892, and the following day. The first of
these fires originated in 27th Street, near the centre of the town.
Exceptionally high winds from the south carried the flames in a northerly
direction. All the wooden and bamboo buildings in front of the fire were
consumed in an incredibly short space of time. Very soon the flames
reached the central telegraph office, a new Government building that cost
about £2,000. The flames leaped across a very wide street, and destroyed
the office. The fire burnt its way through the town due north for two
miles, and ceased only when it had burnt itself out. There is a good
fire-engine establishment since the British rule, but fire-engines are of
no avail in a case like that.

The first great fire was still smouldering when, on the following day,
another broke out in the eastern town. It spread in the same way from
south to north about two miles. In the line of this fire, and extending
the whole way, were a series of remarkably fine monastery buildings,
including some of the finest in Burma, all built of teak, and covered
with decorative carving, and two of them covered with gold leaf within
and without. One of these monasteries was built by King Mindohn at a cost
of 16 lakhs of rupees; the entire loss caused by this one fire alone is
roughly estimated at 100 lakhs (say £600,000). The same day a third fire
broke out in the north end of the town, and destroyed several hundreds of
Burmese houses. This fire was caused by gross negligence, the sparks from
a Burmese cigar igniting some Indian corn. When these fires occur the
Burmans do not seem to concern themselves. They remove their household
goods if they have time, but make no real efforts to stem the progress
of the flames. Much valuable property is destroyed, but it is seldom any
lives are lost.

All Eastern nations pay great attention to the rules relating to the
degree of state and dignity such and such classes of the people may
assume. Amongst the Hindus the pariahs and other low castes are most
rigidly kept down, and the least sign of alteration for the better
in their dress, houses, or circumstances renders them liable to the
persecution of the higher castes. I have known in Ceylon amongst the
Hindus prolonged struggles between certain castes, involving serious
breaches of the peace, the point at issue being only this—whether a
certain caste of people ought or ought not to be allowed to carry
umbrellas at their weddings and on other special occasions. In the native
kingdom of Travancore, a few years ago, serious riots took place because
the women of a certain class of people known as the “slave caste,” having
come under the influence of the Gospel, desired to dress themselves with
something like decency, whereas the inexorable rule was that neither man
nor woman of that caste was to clothe the body above the waist or below
the knee.

In Burma, though there is no caste, the sumptuary laws were stringently
carried out. The title “Thootay” (rich man) was enjoyed only under royal
edict. For funerals five different degrees of rank were all minutely
laid down, and the state and show must be accordingly. The umbrella
question was regarded as a most vital and important one. In the matter
of the use of that great emblem of dignity minute directions were issued
and observed. Gilt umbrellas especially were only for the chosen few.
The white umbrella no one must assume but the king and the Lord White
Elephant. Under Burmese rule any one appearing in public under a white
umbrella would have had to answer for it. Where in English we should
say “the throne,” or “the crown,” as the emblem of royalty, in Burmese
literature it would be “the white umbrella and the palace.”

I remember on one occasion unwittingly making what, in Burmese times,
would have been a serious breach in my manners, and it shows how easy
it is to do that in an Eastern country. It was at Pagân, a town on the
Irrawaddy. Happening to be there one day when the Chief Commissioner of
Burma, the representative of our Queen-Empress, was expected, I went down
to the river bank, where many Burmans were assembled to see him, and do
him honour as he landed from the steamer. The day was bright and the sun
very hot, and as usual I put up an umbrella I always carried with me, of
the ordinary English alpaca, but with _a white cover_, for additional
protection from the sun’s rays. I saw the Burmans looking and making
remarks, but being in blissful forgetfulness that I was holding an
umbrella at the time, I never thought it referred to me, until suddenly
I remembered that there was I, in the presence of the representative
of royalty, assuming the white umbrella, and, according to Burmese
etiquette, guilty of something approaching to high treason! I hauled down
my flag _at once_.

The royal titles of the King of Burma were perhaps the most pompous and
pretentious of any monarch—“His most glorious and excellent Majesty, Lord
of the Tshaddau, King of Elephants, Master of many White Elephants, Lord
of the Mines of gold, silver, rubies, amber, and the noble serpentine,
Sovereign of the empires of Thuna-paranta and Tampadipa, and other great
empires and countries, and of all the Umbrella-wearing Chiefs, the
Supporter of Religion, the Sun-descended Monarch, Arbiter of Life, and
great King of Righteousness, King of Kings, and Possessor of Boundless
Dominion and Supreme Wisdom.”

As may be surmised from this lengthy and extravagant title that ancient
doctrine known as the divine right of kings was held in Burma out and
out, without the slightest qualification or limit. Every subject was the
king’s born slave, with no legal right to any property. The king was the
absolute master of the lives, the liberties, the property, and the very
labour of his subjects. There was little or no private ownership of land;
the land belonged to the king. The cultivators were merely the king’s
tenants, raising produce for his benefit, he graciously allowing them to
have some of the produce for their own support.

But there is a principle of compensation running through all human
affairs, and even absolute monarchs cannot have things all their own
way; and a throne is not always a bed of roses. The more grinding the
despotism the greater the danger of revolution. Hence the only real limit
to the power of the king was his dread of assassination, and this was
a very real and well-grounded fear, especially in the case of a ruler
like King Theebaw, with a faulty title and with no natural ability for
wielding power. The King of Burma was little better than a prisoner in
his own spacious palace and grounds, for he could scarcely ever leave
them, for fear of the palace, and the arsenal close by, being seized in
his absence by some pretender to the throne. If that should happen there
was small chance of his recovering them. The chief cause of the king’s
insecurity was the unbridled polygamy of the Burmese court. This resulted
in crowds of queens, princes and princesses, all possible claimants to
the throne, and it sometimes happened, as in the case of King Theebaw,
that there was no rest for him till most of them were put to death.

The Burmese Government was throughout characterised by oppression
and misrule. No fixed salaries were paid to officials, but princes,
ministers, queens, concubines and favourites were supported by the grant
of a province, and known by the title of “Myo-tsa” (province-eater), a
title which only too aptly indicated its own meaning. It was the policy
of the Myo-tsa to squeeze as much revenue as he could out of the people,
in order to pay the required amount at Mandalay and _to pay himself_.
Subordinate to the province-eater came the functionaries in charge of
circles of villages, and then of the individual villages; and in each
case it was the same thing, all intent on making as much as they could
out of it. This was with regard to the tax levied on each family or
house. The same primitive and essentially vicious methods applied to
the other items of taxation—viz., that on produce, fees on law cases,
and occasionally, extraordinary contributions to Government for special
needs—gave rise to the same kind of fleecing of the people. Towards the
end of King Theebaw’s reign things grew worse and worse. The sale of
monopolies became very common, and state lotteries for the benefit of the
revenue did great harm amongst a people naturally fond of gambling. When
at last Burmese rule came to an end it was a clearing away of much that
was rotten and hopelessly out of date, and on the whole it was a great
blessing to the people to substitute for it British rule.




CHAPTER XIV.

_BURMESE HOME LIFE._


The Countess of Dufferin’s fund for the training of female nurses
in midwifery, for the benefit of women in the East, is nowhere more
sorely needed than it is in Burma, for there are among the Burmans,
in connection with that critical period, usages that render some more
enlightened method of treatment urgently to be desired. Immediately on
the birth of the child, it is the earnest endeavour of those in charge
to place the mother as near as possible to a very large fire. Hot bricks
are applied, rugs and blankets are piled upon her, irrespective of the
state of the weather, in a country where for two months of the year the
thermometer stands at 110° in the shade of the verandah. This continues
for seven days, and is with a view to dispel the noxious humours supposed
to be generated. This treatment, in addition to the drinking of much
medicine at the same time, renders that crisis of life more than usually
hazardous to the mother.

[Illustration: “EVERY BURMAN YOUTH, AS HE GROWS UP, IS TATTOOED FROM THE
WAIST TO THE KNEES.”]

The boy goes to the monastery school as soon as he is able to learn, and
is there taught to read and write, and is initiated into the teachings of
Buddhism. He learns the five universal commandments, the five subsidiary
rules, and the Pali formulæ used at the pagoda worship. At the monastery
he is made familiar, at the most susceptible period of his life, with
the routine of the life of the monks, learning, amongst other things,
idleness as a fine art, and he is taught to look upon the condition of
the monk as the holiest man can attain in this life. If I were asked
which I considered the strongest point Buddhism holds in the midst of the
Burmese people, I should at once lay my finger on this—_the influence
of the monastery school on the boys_. There can be no doubt that before
any great inroads can be made upon Buddhism—before Christianity can
have a fair chance of success—the missionary will have to enter into
an honourable competition with the monastery schools. These are days
of competition. He will have to provide a better and a wider system of
vernacular elementary education than the people can get at present, and
by providing a better article, he can attract the people to him. Let him
fearlessly permeate the teaching through and through with _Christian
truth_ (not anti-Buddhism), and he will find that will not lessen, but
increase, his popularity. In all Oriental lands the heathen instruction
of the indigenous schools is a hindrance to Christianity, but I know of
no country where it is more so than in Burma.

Every Burman youth, as he grows up, is tattooed from the waist to the
knees.[2] It is considered an indispensable token of manliness for the
thighs to be completely covered with various figures of birds, animals,
scrolls and letters. This tattooing would be too painful if done all
at once. It is done little by little. Besides this universal method of
tattooing, other styles are followed. Sometimes the chest is covered with
cabalistic squares and symbols in vermilion, in connection with which
many foolish superstitions are entertained. The Burmans have a great
notion of some kinds of tattooing as special preservatives against wounds
from bullets and sword cuts, and as a means of warding off the evils,
and securing the advantages, of life. There was a great deal of this in
the troublous times through which we passed after the annexation, and
until the country settled down. Many of the dacoit leaders made use of
this method to increase the confidence of their followers, by making them
invulnerable; but not a few who put their trust in this defence found
themselves mistaken.

Then there are talismans specially used by Burman dacoits, consisting of
charmed or consecrated objects, inserted under their skin, and embedded
permanently between the skin and the flesh. Many famed dacoits have long
rows of them on their chests.

It is a sign of the ability of this people to take up new ideas, that
the Burman tattooers have lately taken to pushing business amongst the
English soldiers, who, as a class, are very fond of being decorated in
this way. For this purpose these artists have had the tact to leave the
patterns fashionable amongst their own countrymen, and have taken to
imitating English pictures, devices and emblems. Many a “time-expired”
soldier who has served in Burma, now in England, is able to show these
decorations (?) on his arms and chest in more than one colour.

The Burmans are a nation of smokers. The children begin at a very tender
age, and are not checked. Men, women and children smoke; the most
dignified of matrons and the smartest of young damsels not only smoke,
but prefer to have their portraits taken cheroot in hand. The Burman can
never bring himself to look upon his cigar as out of place, even in the
most august presence; it seems a part of himself. If he should drop in to
a Christian service he will light up, if you will allow him, as he sits
to hear the address.

The staple food of the Burmans is boiled rice, and curry made of
vegetables stewed, with the addition of condiments, and meat or fish,
if they can get it. Though they are very scrupulous themselves about
taking any animal life, they are not at all averse to animal food. Did
not the Buddha eat flesh? His last illness is said to have been caused,
in extreme age, by a meal of pork, which disagreed with him. The Burmans
are coarse feeders. They will readily eat that which has died of itself.
We had direct evidence of that one day, when two of us were travelling,
and arrived in the evening at a village. A military convoy of elephants,
mules and ponies carrying stores, had that day passed through the
village, and one of the ponies had died there, and was lying by the
roadside. Next day we met the people carrying portions of the flesh, and
on inquiry, they told us it was that same pony, and that they were going
to eat it. On our return the whole of it was cleared away. Even snakes
and lizards do not come amiss to them.

[Illustration: “THE MOST DIGNIFIED OF MATRONS AND THE SMARTEST OF YOUNG
DAMSELS NOT ONLY SMOKE, BUT PREFER TO HAVE THEIR PORTRAITS TAKEN CHEROOT
IN HAND.”]

They are exceedingly fond of a condiment of fish paste called _ngapee_.
This is fish dried a little in the sun, salted, and then mashed to a
pulp. As the fish for _ngapee_ is not properly cured, the effluvium
emitted from it is particularly obnoxious, and can be detected a very
long way off. The smell might be described as strong, pungent, high; but
none of these adjectives serves properly to characterise it. Having never
ventured to eat any I cannot describe the taste. Yet this fish paste is
so liked by the Burmans that a meal is hardly complete without it. It
gives the food a relish.

The Burmans clothe themselves in very bright colours, and in good taste
as regards the harmony of the colours. A good deal of what they wear,
both silk and cotton cloth, is locally manufactured. The weavers and
dyers have some exquisite shades of pink, of red, of primrose, of navy
blue, and other colours. They spend more on dress than the natives of
India, and less on jewellery. Many of the people wear silk. The women
dress their fine, luxuriant jet-black hair very tastefully. It is combed
up from all sides very neatly, and made into a coil on the crown of the
head. They wear no headdress but a bunch or wreath of flowers. That
the Burmans cannot be considered an uncivilised race is clear from the
perfect familiarity of their ladies with the mystery of the chignon, and
with the manufacture and use of cosmetics for the improvement of the
complexion, to say nothing of scents and artificial flowers, also locally
made.

The Burmans have some taste, too, in music. They have a fair ear, pick up
English tunes without difficulty, and sing them sweetly. Their musical
instruments are primitive, and not very elaborate. They have a kind
of pipe or clarionet, also a kind of trumpet; but they are greatest
in drums. A performer on the drums will have around him in a circle
something like a dozen, of different sizes, and varying in pitch, so that
he can almost play a tune on them. For private instrumental solos they
have a kind of dulcimer, made of strips of bamboo, which is wonderfully
musical and rich in tone, especially considering the material it is made
from. It seems strange that the Karens should so excel their neighbours,
the other races of Burma, in the capacity for music, especially when
we consider that civilisation came to the Karens so late. The relative
aptitude for music amongst the different races of the earth, from all one
can learn, seems to hinge on something other than the mere extent of the
civilisation attained. What does it depend upon?

The Burman artists paint a good many pictures, judging by the great
numbers offered for sale and hawked round. The pictures are mostly palace
scenes, with kings and queens seated stiffly in state, receiving company,
with courtiers standing round, and soldiers posted here and there.
Latterly, Thomas Atkins, of the British Infantry, has been the approved
type of the soldiery; perhaps with a view to a better sale for the
pictures. The artists are adventurous, and willing to attempt anything,
and they do not spare the colours, but the pictures are very stiff and
the perspective is bad.

The frescoes at the Arakan pagoda in Mandalay, representing the eight
hells of Buddhism, are for many reasons a curious study. Those pictures
are more of a success from the standpoint of dogmatic theology than from
that of high art. The scenes depicted are realistic and definite beyond
any manner of doubt. The artist, one would think, had made up his mind
to be very “faithful” with us, and to shrink not from depicting what he
considered the truth on the subject. Human beings are there seen writhing
in torturing fire, fixed on thorns, torn by dogs, dragged by black
monsters in human form, thrown by them into torments with pitchforks,
or starving by inches, with every bone in their bodies showing, and
with faces of unutterable woe. One wretch is represented attempting to
climb a tree, his brains being picked out by a bird from above, and
his feet being torn off by dogs from beneath; another is seated on the
ground, while two men are sawing him in halves, right through the head
downwards, the blood all the while flowing in gallons! In one instance,
the head, having been entirely severed from the body, is looking on in
consternation at the rest of the body being chopped up.

In the matter of sculpture, the numerous marble images of Gautama
(Buddha) show considerable ability in execution, especially in the faces,
which show regularity of features and true likeness to the human face,
as well as the correct expression of calm meditation appropriate to the
Buddha; but there is much room for improvement in the general design, and
for accuracy and variety in the various details. But we must remember
that the sculptor of a Gautama is bound down by conventional canons of
taste as to the postures, and as to the expression of the face, which he
may not depart from.

In wood-carving, where there is scope for taste and fancy, we get from
the Burman really wonderful results. There is nothing in which they
excel more than in this, whether it be in the way of small delicate work
in picture frames, brackets, and other articles of small and beautiful
workmanship, or in the numerous elaborate adornments of the monastery
buildings. Many of the more noted monasteries are quite a study of
sumptuous carving in teak wood, the whole building in many cases being
one mass of scrolls and decorations, with many well-executed figures
of men, cattle, horses and supernatural creatures. In the case of some
monasteries whole histories are depicted in the carvings.

Marriage amongst the Burmans is not a very close bond. It is a civil
institution, and altogether non-religious, and divorce for trifling
causes is common and easy. I know a well-to-do couple who had been
married for some years, and lived happily; but at length a difference
of opinion unfortunately arose between them, and a quarrel ensued about
a mere trifle, affecting the expenditure of a sum not more than a
shilling, and after the quarrel they calmly agreed to separate, on the
ground of incompatibility of dispositions. Many a man has had several
wives, one after another, and parted with them successively. In case of
the dissolution of a marriage, the woman retains whatever property she
possessed before marriage, together with what she may have gained by her
own separate exertions, or inherited.

Polygamy is sanctioned by usage, but is not very common, as it is
costly; concubinage is by no means uncommon. The wealthy, such as
ministers of state and men in high position, usually kept more than one
wife. The king was the worst offender in this respect, for he set a
very bad example. King Mindohn, the last king but one, had fifty-three
recognised wives, of whom thirty-seven survived him, besides numerous
concubines; and he had one hundred and ten children, of whom fifty
survived him. He himself, however, in conversation with the English
envoy, deplored this bad custom, as productive of much intrigue,
revolution and bloodshed in the palace. There was sad confirmation of
this after his death, in the two fearful massacres during the reign of
King Theebaw, that cut off nearly all the surviving members of the royal
family, besides many other innocent persons.

One very peculiar and unseemly custom was for the reigning monarch to
espouse, as his principal queen, one of the royal princesses, who was
therefore his half-sister. It is undoubtedly a blessing for Burma that
such a rule, so hopelessly corrupt and demoralising to the nation, so
incompetent to keep order, and so determinedly Oriental, conservative and
out of date, has become a thing of the past.

The position of woman in Burma, notwithstanding the blemishes on their
social system, is not nearly so down-trodden and degraded as in most
Eastern countries. This undoubtedly arises from the fact that there are
no zenanas among the Burmans, no keeping of women shut up. They are as
free to come and go, and take part in the business of life, as women are
in England, and they avail themselves of their liberty, and take a very
considerable share in the business that is done. In money matters in the
family they have always enjoyed an equality with the other sex, which
was only of late years accorded to women in England; that is, the power
to retain in their own right for themselves and their heirs the property
they possessed before, or gained after, marriage. As the women, as a
general rule in Burma, are far more industrious than the men, and quite
as shrewd and business-like, this tends towards maintaining a healthy
sense of equality with the other sex. If a man has a managing wife who
can run a stall in the market, or greatly assist in supporting the family
by keeping a shop at home, as is very often the case, the husband will
think twice before he leaves her, or provokes her to leave him. The wife
and mother sits by, and gives her opinion on things in general, in the
family conclave, and hen-pecked husbands are not unknown in Burma.

[Illustration: “MANY OF THE MORE NOTED MONASTERIES ARE QUITE A STUDY OF
SUMPTUOUS CARVING IN TEAK WOOD.”]

The Burmans are very fond of games. They have an excellent game of
football which they very often play, but it is a very different thing
from the rough game known in England by that name. English football is
too violent an exercise for that climate. It is more on the principle
of shuttlecock. Six or eight young men stand around in a circle, with
their garments tucked up so as not to impede their movements. A light,
hollow wickerwork ball is started by one of them, and the object of the
game is to keep it going as long as possible. They must not touch the
ball with the hand, but they show great skill and activity in catching
it with the foot, either side of the ankle, the heel, the toe, the knee,
the shoulder. It is a clever stroke to leap up two or three feet into the
air, and meet and kick the ball with the heel, as it is descending; one
still more difficult is to leap up, catch the ball between the feet, and
jerk it up again into the air before reaching the ground. Each player
takes the ball when it is tossed over into his vicinity, and he may keep
it going any number of times, before kicking it off across to the other
side of the circle. Few games are better calculated to exercise the limbs
and render the young men strong on their feet than this.

Boat-racing is another very favourite national amusement. In the racing
boats are many rowers, with short paddles, and the races are scenes of
wild excitement, both on the part of the competitors and spectators.
There is a good deal of betting in connection with these races. The
gambling spirit easily takes hold of the Burmans. All games of chance
have a great fascination with this excitable, volatile people, and they
fall an easy prey to the low, cunning Chinaman, who makes it his business
to introduce gambling into the village, and to profit by it.

The Burmans are also exceedingly fond of the drama. For every conceivable
event that can by any ingenuity be made a special occasion, there must
be what is called a _pwè_. I have known a _pwè_ in honour of a birth,
and I have known one given to celebrate a death—the execution of a noted
dacoit leader, who had been a great curse to the neighbourhood, and had
long defied justice—and for almost any occasion occupying an intermediate
position between the two, one of these dramatic performances would not
be out of place. There are no permanent buildings used as theatres. The
performance takes place in the open street. The temporary erection used
as the stage is constructed of the useful and indispensable bamboo. It
is set up in the street, and extends frequently halfway across it. The
rest of the thoroughfare is blocked up with the couches the spectators
bring from their homes to sit upon; and traffic is almost suspended in
that direction for the time being. All this preparation takes place
during the day. The play begins after dark, and goes on until towards
sunrise. Temporary stalls for the sale of food are set up at the edge of
the crowd, and the people by hundreds make a night of it. The dramas are
founded on tales which Gautama (Buddha) told of his five hundred and ten
previous existences, or on events in the lives of kings and heroes. The
dialogue is chiefly recitative, interspersed with solos, choruses and
dancing. Instrumental music accompanies the singing. There is always the
clown or jester on these occasions, who has his turn in the course of the
performance, and roars of laughter greet the broad jokes he furnishes.
The whole performance is free. The custom is for some person to hire the
players, and bear the expense of the entertainment, inviting his friends,
and throwing it open to all. Pickled tea is handed round among the
guests on these occasions as a kind of dessert, mixed with salt, garlic,
assafœtida and a few grains of millet seed. It has an anti-soporific
effect, and so serves to keep them awake, to listen to the drama.

The Burman is a firm believer in amusement, in relaxation, in holidays.
He sees no good in a too strenuous and incessant application to the
serious business of life. He likes to take life easily, and to see plenty
of change. Even his religious duties usually blend amusement with the
seeking after merit. The numerous festivals and religious observances
serve for frequent holidays, and whatever he may fancy in the way of
diversion. The Burman is indolent, casual, unstable and uncertain,
and not to be depended upon. He does not readily conform to discipline
or restraint, and it is found very difficult to make a soldier or a
policeman of him. It is difficult to get him into a routine of any kind.
He makes a very indifferent servant. In Burma the British Government
cannot depend upon Burmans in the constitution of the police force, but
finds it necessary to man the greater part of the police ranks with
natives of India, enlisted chiefly from among the fighting races of the
Punjab.

In mitigation of the indictment against the Burman that he is loose,
careless and lazy, it is urged that he is fettered by the multiplicity of
lucky and unlucky days, and various astrological difficulties, which we
do not appreciate. But when every allowance is made for these things, it
must be found a true bill against him. This _is_ one of the weak points
in his character.

Even in school life this feature of the national character abundantly
manifests itself. The boys, instead of keeping to one school, are fond of
attending school after school, changing from one to another, until they
have gone the round of all within their reach, when they will start to go
the round again. One might almost suppose they thought there was a school
where they could learn by magic, and that they were in search of that
school. Such a crying evil has this become in Burma, that stringent rules
have had to be framed by the Department of Public Instruction to check
this incessant migration.

If the Burman has the faults of a careless, happy-go-lucky race, he
has the virtues also. He has been called the Irishman of the East. His
manners have the ease and the polish of a “gentleman born.” He is most
affable and approachable, and in religion tolerant of the opinions of
others. He is hospitable, and will help the destitute stranger without
making too many inquiries. I met one day in Mandalay an English sailor,
who had made his way up from Rangoon with another man. They had done the
last two hundred miles on foot. They were both quite destitute, and yet
they had travelled all that distance, for the most part of it far from
any Englishman, and that, too, when the country was in a most disturbed
state on account of dacoits, and without knowing a word of Burmese. They
had simply passed on from village to village, their wants being supplied
by the Burmans where they halted. That this should have been possible
speaks well for the kind-hearted hospitality of the Burmans.

If it is one of the marks of a gentleman to be able in an easy and
natural manner to place himself on a level with you, the Burman has this
in a high degree. The native of India makes a twofold mistake here. His
outlandish notions of etiquette lead him to cringe and crouch before
the European, to an extent which is sometimes offensive, whilst at the
same time his caste leads him in his heart of hearts to hold himself
immeasurably above him. The Burman makes neither of these mistakes. With
fine tact he steers a medium course, and ranges himself alongside.

The first Burmese servant I had, a typical Burman, was a fine
illustration of this capacity of the race to “make themselves at home”
with the foreigner. He did me the honour to take a fancy to my tooth
brush. I was not aware of it. He did not purloin it, he only made use of
it. The way it came to light was the discovery of him one day, standing
before the looking-glass, in the act of using the implement in the
orthodox manner. How long the two of us had been using the tooth brush
conjointly I cannot say, for I never cared to inquire. I preferred to
think it was only that once! He had it to himself ever after.

A story is told that aptly illustrates that buoyancy of temperament which
constitutes one feature of the Burmese easy-going character. Some years
ago a fire occurred in Mandalay—no uncommon thing. Amongst the bamboo
houses it spread with terrible swiftness, until a large number were
destroyed. Yet the very next evening they were observed to have rigged
up a rude stage among the charred stumps of their house posts, and they
spent the night in witnessing one of their dramatic performances, and
laughing heartily as usual at the jests of the clown. Few people would
have had the heart to go through with that _pwè_ under the circumstances.

With a rich country, a sparse population, and a warm climate, the
conditions of life are easy. The Burman has no struggle to get a living.
Riches have little attraction for him. He has no desire to hoard. What he
has to spare he spends, either in building a monastery, or a pagoda, or
on some humbler work of merit which shall secure him an advantage in the
next birth.




CHAPTER XV.

_A TRUE IDEAL MISSIONARY AND A FALSE MISSIONARY IDEAL._


The American Baptist Mission is the oldest Protestant mission working
in Burma. It was commenced by Dr. Judson in Rangoon in 1813, and has
expanded in Lower Burma to a large and strong mission, having had very
signal and rapid success amongst the Karen races, and to a fair extent
amongst the Burmans also. As far back as 1824, Dr. Judson, wishing to
extend the work to Upper Burma, went up the Irrawaddy and opened a
mission at Ava, which was then the capital. Ava is situated about ten or
twelve miles from Mandalay, and is now quite an insignificant village,
with the remains of the royal city and palace still to be seen. Mandalay,
of course, did not at that time exist as a town. Unfortunately, the
first Burmese war with England took place whilst Judson was at Ava,
and completely broke up the work he had begun to do in the capital,
and Judson was imprisoned, together with the few European and American
residents, at Ava.

For a year and ten months he was kept in rigorous confinement, under
circumstances of great barbarity, first at Ava, and afterwards at the
village of Oung-pen-la, which is only about two miles from Mandalay. I
have often been to Oung-pen-la, a typical Burmese agricultural village,
surrounded by rice fields, which are irrigated from the great Oung-pen-la
lake, close by. The site of the old prison is still pointed out by the
villagers, but the building itself has been removed, and, being of teak,
has left no trace behind. Seldom have the annals of missions furnished a
more pathetic narrative of suffering than this.

“On the 8th of June,” wrote Mrs. Judson, “just as we were preparing
for dinner, in rushed an officer, holding a black book, with a dozen
Burmans, accompanied by _one_, who from his spotted face we knew to be
an executioner, and a ‘son of the prison.’ ‘Where is the teacher?’ was
the first inquiry. Mr. Judson presented himself. ‘You are called by the
king,’ said the officer,—a form of speech always used when about to
arrest a criminal. The spotted man instantly seized Mr. Judson, threw him
on the floor, and produced the small cord, the instrument of torture.”

With this the prisoner was bound and dragged off to the court house,
where the governor of the city and the officers were collected, and
one of them read the order of the king, to commit Mr. Judson to the
death-prison. He was suspected of being in communication with the
English, with whom they were at war, though of course he had nothing to
do with them.

This was the beginning of his long imprisonment. Whilst in prison Judson
suffered much. He was loaded with fetters, which left their marks on his
limbs till the day of his death. He was placed in the common prison,
amidst dirt and noisome smells, in charge of ferocious jailers, who
had to be continually plied with presents to secure for him the very
necessaries of existence. At night it was the custom to secure the safe
keeping of the prisoners by enclosing their feet in a kind of stocks,
several of them in a row, the stocks being then hoisted up into the air
a little way, so that the feet were elevated higher than the head, which
must have caused great pain and inconvenience. During a great part of
the time of this captivity the prisoners were in a state of dreadful
suspense, not knowing whether they might not be put to death any day
or hour. More than once the design was formed to kill them, but by the
Providence of God that intention was never carried out.

The death-prison was constructed of boards, and was rather stronger
than a common Burman dwelling-house. There were no windows nor other
means of admitting the air, except by such crevices as always exist in a
simple board house, and only one small outer door. What must have been
their state with one hundred prisoners of all classes huddled together,
including the worst of criminals, all shut up in one room, loaded with
fetters, in the sweltering heat of the hot season of Upper Burma, where
the thermometer rises every day to 110° in the shade? Prisoners were
continually dying of disease, as well as by violent treatment, and yet
the place was always full. Several sepoys, and occasionally English
soldiers, prisoners of war, swelled the lists of the miserable. These
poor creatures, having no regular supply of food, were often brought to
the very verge of starvation; and then, on some worship day, the women
would come, as a work of charity, to the prison with rice and fruit, and
the miserable sufferers, maddened by starvation, would eat and die.

Suddenly, in May, the very hottest month of the year, when life is a
burden, even with all that can be done to mitigate the effects of the
climate, and when for Europeans to go out in the sun unprotected is at
the peril of their lives, the prisoners were removed from the prison at
Ava to Amarapoora, and after that to Oung-pen-la. They were made to walk
barefoot a journey of nine miles, chained together two by two. The Burman
guards, by a refinement of cruelty, instead of making the journey in
the cool of the day or night, set out at eleven o’clock in the day, so
that they were under the scorching sun all the time, the sand and gravel
like burning coals to tread upon, first blistering their feet, and then
taking the whole of the skin off. One of the European prisoners, a Greek,
who when taken out of prison was in his usual health, fell down on the
way, and expired in an hour or two after their arrival, doubtless from
sunstroke. The others reached Oung-pen-la more dead than alive.

The sufferings of Judson’s devoted wife were scarcely less severe than
his own all this time, although she was not imprisoned. During all the
months he lay imprisoned at Ava she was harassed with the most consuming
anxiety for her husband, and had constantly to exert herself to the
utmost to get him food into the prison. During that time her child was
born. The removal of the prisoners to Oung-pen-la occurred when the babe
was only three months old. It occurred suddenly and unknown to her and
when she found him gone, she knew not whither to go seeking him. She sent
first to the place of execution, fearing the worst, but they were not
there; and then she had to follow the party as best she could, finding
them at last at Oung-pen-la. The very morning after their arrival there,
the little Burmese girl she had with her, to help with the baby, was
taken ill of smallpox, and the babe of three months took it from her.
After that Mrs. Judson herself was taken seriously ill, and for two
months lay helpless on a mat on the floor of the wretched little hut,
where she had taken up her abode, to be near her husband in the prison.
When the child recovered, the mother was unable to nurse her, so that,
being deprived of her usual nourishment, the infant suffered greatly.
Neither a nurse nor a drop of cow’s milk could be procured in the
village. However, by making presents to the jailers—nothing could be done
without presents—she obtained leave for Dr. Judson to come out of prison
daily, in order to carry the emaciated little creature round the village,
to the houses of those women who were suckling children, and to beg them
for pity’s sake to give each a little, to keep the life in the child!

In this way the twenty-two weary months of his captivity passed, amidst
hardships, sickness and anxiety unspeakable. At length release came. On
the advance of the English army up the Irrawaddy, Dr. Judson was sent
for to the Burmese camp, being then a most valuable man, to serve as
interpreter and translator, and to negotiate terms of peace; and thus
their long captivity came to a close.

Ardently as Judson longed to see his mission established in Upper Burma
in his day, sixty years were destined to elapse before the society
to which he belonged secured a permanent footing there. It was after
the annexation in 1886 that work was permanently taken up by them in
Mandalay. A handsome church has recently been erected there at a cost
of about £3,000, by contributions from America and Burma, as a memorial
of Dr. Judson, and the mission has met with a fair share of success. In
addition to Mandalay, three other stations have been taken up by the
American Baptist Mission in Upper Burma—viz., Sagaing, Myingyan and
Meiktila, and one medical missionary has gone to the Shan States. Bhamo
was occupied previously, during King Theebaw’s reign, for work amongst
the Kachin tribes.

The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (S. P. G.) began its work
in Mandalay under the comparatively favouring auspices of King Mindohn,
the father and immediate predecessor of Theebaw. This monarch built for
the mission, at his own cost, very commodious and handsome premises of
teak wood, consisting of a church, a mission house, and a school, which
still remain. In the church is a handsome font, the appropriate gift of
Queen Victoria to this church, built by the munificence of a heathen
king! Theebaw, when a boy, was a pupil in that school, and there was
no thought then of his succeeding to the throne. He made very little
progress with English study, though he had a good reputation for Buddhist
lore.

Owing to the massacres and other grievous disorders of Theebaw’s reign,
the mission had to be closed for several years, the missionaries,
along with all the other English residents, having to leave Mandalay.
On the annexation being declared, the S. P. G. mission was reopened,
and subsequently another station was opened at Shwebo, and these two
stations, with a sub-station at Madeya, have experienced a fair share of
prosperity since.

During the six years these two missions have been re-established in
Upper Burma, the effects of the climate upon the health and lives of the
missionaries have been very marked. Both missions have already their
record of the faithful dead—mission workers, both male and female, who
have fallen in the prime of life, and one before she had well begun her
mission work. In both missions, too, during that time several valued
workers have had to leave the country, worn down by sickness, and unable
to endure the climate.

The Wesleyan Mission commenced work in Mandalay at the beginning of 1887.
Up to date we number three European missionaries, two Singhalese workers
(from Ceylon), and three other native preachers, and we have occupied
three stations, Mandalay, Pakokku and Kyaukse. The story of our work will
appear in the subsequent pages.

[Illustration: “WE NUMBER THREE EUROPEAN MISSIONARIES, TWO SINGHALESE
WORKERS, AND THREE OTHER NATIVE PREACHERS.”]

Coming now to the subject belonging to the second half of this chapter,

                      THE FALSE MISSIONARY IDEAL,

    I wish to deal with a matter, partly suggested by the recital
    of the sufferings of Judson just related, upon which something
    needs to be said. It has often appeared to me that there still
    lingers, in the minds of many people, a very erroneous ideal of
    missions and missionaries, which it is quite time to do away
    with. A recent writer has aptly expressed the notion to which I
    refer in these words:—

    “The more barren the missionary’s lot of all comfort, the
    greater the degree of self-denial and privation that can be
    encountered, the better. What he has really undertaken is to
    carry the Gospel to the destitute, and so to live as to secure
    the longest, fullest and most complete career of usefulness
    along that line. But this is not the view of the malcontents;
    they regard him as a spectacle, an ascetic, an object lesson in
    self-denial. It is not so much what he does as what he suffers.
    The chief end is the impression which he makes on men’s minds
    by his self-mortification.”

    This may seem at first sight rather a strong putting of the
    case, but I think it will be apparent, as we proceed, that it
    is nearer the popular notion than the reader may at first be
    prepared to admit. The first witness I will cite is John G.
    Paton, missionary to the New Hebrides. If the reader has not
    yet read his book, let me urge him to do so without delay.
    In the earlier days of his missionary life on the island of
    Tanna, he passed through a period of almost unexampled trial
    from the brutal savagery of the natives, owing to the fact
    that there was no such thing as law, justice, or protection of
    any kind to be obtained. His trials were such as few men could
    have endured, and lived. The people were utterly uncivilised,
    bloodthirsty, quarrelsome, superstitious and vindictive. Human
    life was scarcely of any value among them, and they were
    cannibals. His life was attempted times without number. Other
    missionaries and native Christian teachers were murdered, and
    done to death by them one way or another, and how he escaped
    death amongst them seems nothing short of miraculous.

    At length a crisis more acute than usual came, and the wicked
    and superstitious malice of the Tannese broke out against him
    to such a degree that he was driven out of the island, all his
    property was looted, and he barely escaped with his life. In
    his distress he went over to Australia to recruit his health,
    which must have needed it after such a strain. Of what occurred
    there I quote his own statement:—

    “Some unsophisticated souls who read these pages will be
    astonished to learn, but others who know more of the heartless
    selfishness of human creatures will be quite prepared to hear,
    that my leaving Tanna was not a little criticised, and a great
    deal of nonsense was written, even in Church magazines, about
    the breaking up of the Mission. All such criticism came, of
    course, from men who were themselves destitute of sympathy,
    and who probably never endured one pang for Jesus in all their
    comfortable lives. Conscious that I had, to the last inch of
    life, tried to do my duty, I left all results in the hands of
    my only Lord, and all criticisms to His unerring judgment.
    Hard things also were occasionally spoken to my face. One
    dear friend, for instance, said, ‘You should not have left.
    You should have stood at the post of duty till you fell. It
    would have been to your honour, and better for the cause of
    the Mission, had you been killed at the post of duty like the
    Gordons and others.’

    “I replied, ‘_I regard it as a greater honour to live and to
    work for Jesus than to be a self-made martyr._ God knows that
    I did not refuse to die; for I stood at the post of duty, amid
    difficulty and danger, till all hope had fled, till everything
    I had was lost, and till God, in answer to prayer, sent a means
    of escape. I left with a clear conscience, knowing that in
    doing so I was following God’s leading, and serving the Mission
    too. To have remained longer would have been to incur the guilt
    of self-murder in the sight of God.’”

    These sentiments, especially the words I have italicised, do
    honour alike to Paton’s devotion and to his common sense, and
    they are a just rebuke of a very false ideal.

    Happening to take up one day an influential religious
    newspaper, I met with a notice of John G. Paton’s book, which
    spoke in very high terms of it, and of him, concluding with
    the following sentence, in which the editor most innocently
    and unconsciously brings up in another form this same
    false ideal, even after reading the book; which shows how
    prevalent the error is, and difficult to eradicate. “Now that
    civilisation is spreading, and owing to the general extension
    of facilities for travel to every part of the earth, it is to
    be feared that such records of missionary experience will soon
    be amongst the things of the past.” “It is to be _feared_”
    say the stay-at-home people, and editors in easy chairs. Any
    missionary, especially Paton himself, would have said, “It
    is to be _hoped_.” If the reader will but ponder that word
    “_feared_,” and take in all that it means, he will see that
    it is the very notion Paton complains of, and that I am here
    seeking to correct.

    We still need to take to heart Dr. Johnson’s exhortation to
    “clear our minds of cant.” After praying times without number
    that cannibalism, and all the cruel horrors and barbarities of
    heathenism might come to an end, we are found _fearing_ that
    our prayer is so near being answered, that soon there will be
    no more such tales to tell!

    The immense wave of sympathy that was evoked through the
    lamented illness and death of Father Damien, and which spread
    throughout the civilised world, was another proof of the
    prevalence of the “object lesson” ideal of the missionary.
    Missionaries had been at work succouring and tending lepers
    for many years before that, and a noble society, the Mission
    to Lepers, established in 1874, has now some thirty homes for
    lepers under its care, in India, Burma and China, under the
    management of twelve different Protestant missionary societies.
    But all this _work_ goes on in comparative obscurity, the
    whole of it together not attracting one hundredth part of
    the sympathy and notice that this one case of _suffering_
    attracted. Father Damien _died of leprosy_. “_This_, THIS is
    what we want; this touches our hearts and our pockets,” cries
    out universal Christendom. It seems it is not mission work but
    missionary sufferings the people want to hear about. A false
    ideal.

    A further proof how widespread is this notion will appear
    from a recent article in the March number of the _Missionary
    Review of the World_ for the year 1892. The writer states
    it as frankly as words and repetition can express it, quite
    unconscious that there is anything wrong about it. The
    article is on “Missionary Fellowship.” It is not written by
    a missionary; no missionary could possibly write such rank
    nonsense. This is what he says: “Suffering, after all, is the
    test of missionary character.... It is not so much what the
    missionary does as what he is, and what he is can be shown only
    by _suffering_ for the Gospel’s sake.” He goes on to say that
    it is Judson’s and his wife’s sufferings in Burma, more than
    their missionary labours, that “canonise them as martyrs of
    modern missions”; and there is a good deal more “high falutin’”
    of the same kind.

    To my mind this is a false and absurd ideal—mischievously
    false. Men have gone on thinking it, and occasionally saying
    it, until they fail to see the falsity and absurdity; but if
    we think for a moment we must admit that the Bible tells us
    that every missionary’s _work_, every Christian’s _work_, must
    be the test of the man, and not his sufferings, and gives no
    countenance whatever to this error. Our sufferings are matters
    for which we are not personally answerable in any way, except
    as we may cause them ourselves; otherwise they are beyond our
    control, and can be therefore no test of the man. Judson would
    have been one of the very greatest of missionaries, all the
    same, if he had never seen the inside of a Burmese prison.
    His lifetime of earnest evangelistic labours, his Burmese
    Bible, his two dictionaries, his Burmese grammar, his other
    precious literary remains, and the many souls saved through
    his instrumentality, and long since gone to glory—these are
    the enduring monuments that entitle him to our reverence, and
    constitute that bright example which some of us are humbly
    trying to follow. His sufferings were indeed severe, but to
    dwell upon them, and laud them as being of far more importance
    than his work, not only does an injustice to the memory of the
    man himself, but it feeds a false ideal, and keeps from view
    the real purpose for which we go to the heathen.

    The sooner we give up this nonsense _entirely_, and take our
    stand upon truth and common sense, the sooner shall we find
    the sound, and only sure basis for that increase of missionary
    enthusiasm, which is so much needed at the present time. So
    long as our enthusiasm is based upon any such shadowy and
    precarious foundation as the sufferings of missionaries,
    whether supposed or real, so long will the results disappoint
    us.

But there is a further objection against this false ideal, on the ground
that abroad, in the mission field, it gives rise to a powerful and subtle
temptation in some minds, and leads to waste of precious power. In most
mission fields the hardness of the hearts of many of the heathen, and the
deep sense of isolation from the people which the missionary feels, _and
which is inevitable_ from the difference of race, language and habits,
are so distressing, that there are few conscientious souls that have not
felt, at some time or other, a strong tendency towards an ascetic mode
of life: “O! let me do this, let me do that, let me do anything, if I
can only come nearer the people.” There is quite enough tendency to this
abroad, without its being further stimulated by a demand at home.

“But what do you mean by asceticism? Where do you draw the line?”

By asceticism I mean the deliberate—sometimes even ostentatious—cutting
down of provision as to food, clothing, dwelling, and general comfort,
_to a point obviously below the standard of health and efficiency_; this
standard being naturally fixed at an approximation to that of the mode
of life to which the missionary has previously been accustomed. My own
experience of missionary life, extending over nineteen years, is that I
have always had to work much harder than if I had been in England, and,
whilst the mode of living must needs be very plain and temperate to be
healthy, the food must be nourishing, and the surroundings in a fair
degree of comfort, or it will soon lead to a collapse.

I do not condemn _economy_; God forbid! No one believes in that more
than I do. I entertain strong views as to the importance of a _humble,
simple, unostentatious manner of life_, and have always practised it.
Nor do I wish to state that the missionary has no need of _self-denial_.
A man cannot be even a disciple without self-denial. Without it, as a
missionary he would be useless; and I may testify, in all simplicity,
that I have known what it was to practise it, and have reaped the sweet
and precious fruits of it. But if that hymn of Keble’s is true anywhere
it is true in the missionary’s life—

    “The trivial round, the common task,
    Will furnish all we ought to ask;
    Room to deny ourselves; a road
    To bring us, daily, nearer God.”

“All we ought to ask”; missionary life with its labours, cares and
anxieties, often in an exhausting climate; its frequent and sore
disappointments, its loneliness, the separation from friends and
children, and the special call sometimes to new and untried spheres of
duty; its sense of heavy responsibility in having to stand practically
alone, at the head of a band of native helpers, and to be expected to
supply enthusiasm for everybody about him—these, the necessary and
unavoidable trials, are the legitimate means of denying himself; and
they afford infinite scope for useful, holy service, and they are quite
enough, without going further afield, like Don Quixote, in search of more.

I trust my readers will bear with me whilst I give the details of some
cases I have known, where honoured brethren and sisters have felt moved
to attempt the ascetic method, in order that we may observe how it works.

I knew a pious devoted missionary of another Society. He was a man of
decidedly ascetic life. One of the ordinary diseases of the country, not
generally fatal, assailed him. His constitution, in the opinion of those
best able to judge, was so weakened by his ascetic life that he could not
rally, but died in the prime of life. Humanly speaking, he died before
his time, and one fails to see that his death constitutes any adequate
object lesson, to compensate for the loss of his active usefulness. A
missionary’s continued and useful life ought to be a much greater benefit
to a country than the deposit of his remains in the soil, and the
example of a living worker is surely more influential than the memory of
one departed.

I knew a missionary and his wife, earnest, devoted, exceedingly kind
to the people, and successful. From the first of their settling in the
country, their asceticism was so marked that their friends, who saw it,
pleaded with them to eat more food and better food, but in vain. Being
new to the country, they did not know the risks they ran. After barely
two years of earnest work, ill health compelled their retirement from the
field, with scarcely any prospect of ever returning. And yet there was no
kind of necessity for them to live thus. They appeared to think there was
some virtue in self-denial of this type, merely for its own sake.

Another case of the same kind was that of an unmarried missionary lady,
with a strong natural tendency to asceticism. She was an able and
diligent missionary, and well acquainted with the language. After some
years of missionary life, the tendency grew upon her to such an extent,
that she withdrew more and more from association with her own people,
lived with none but natives, on native food, and broke off one comfort
after another, until even bread was too much of a luxury! After a year or
eighteen months of this ascetic life, her health broke down so completely
that she had to return home to America or die.

One of our brethren in India has told us his story of a similar attempt.
It was a sense of duty that urged him to come down to native diet, native
dress, and general mode of life; and very loyally to this sense of duty
did he persevere for many months. But, to his infinite sorrow, he found
that instead of bringing him any nearer to the people, it seemed only
to increase the distance; for it aroused their suspicions as to his
motives for doing so. He found at length that he could have reached them
better if he had moved amongst them in the ordinary way. But meanwhile
the penalty of all this had come; his health so completely broke down,
clearly in consequence of this method of living, that he had to leave
India, and now for several years he has been laid aside completely in
England, unable to do any regular work. He is the victim of an honest,
and very persistent, but mistaken attempt to live an ascetic missionary
life.

As regards the wearing of the native dress, it has often been assumed
that to do so must needs place a missionary more in touch with the
natives. But in India it is not found that such is really the case.
With the exception of the Salvation Army, this is the only case in
India where I ever heard of its being attempted, and it had quite the
contrary effect. I have heard that a venerable missionary _once_ tried
it in Burma, but the peals of laughter that greeted his appearance in
the streets instantly convinced him that he could gain nothing by that
method. There are probably cases where it is advisable, and even almost
necessary, to assume the dress of the country. Each case should be judged
upon its own merits, and it greatly depends what kind of a dress it is.
In India and Burma they like to see the man be himself, and they respect
you for keeping to the customs you have been brought up with.

    The following is a faithful account of an heroic, but
    ill-judged and disastrous, missionary enterprise in Burma, in
    substance as I had it from the lips of one of the survivors,
    who paid me a visit in Mandalay, a few of the particulars being
    supplied by another missionary well acquainted with the facts.
    I wish that all my readers could have heard the touchingly
    simple recital, and witnessed the gentle and refined Christian
    bearing of this excellent brother. It is the narrative of a
    small mission, sent out by evangelical Christians in Denmark
    to the Red Karens, an independent tribe of demon worshippers,
    dwelling in Karennee, on the eastern frontier of Burma. My
    informant is a Dane. It will be observed that the bane of the
    whole enterprise was the ascetic idea, imbibed at home, and in
    this case carried out to the bitter end. The case serves to
    show also what a formidable difficulty to foreign evangelism we
    have in the mere matter of the climate.

    Near the close of 1884, two young men, Danish missionaries,
    Hans Polvsen and Hans Jansen, arrived in Burma, with the
    purpose of establishing this mission. On their arrival they
    looked the very picture of health. They had both been inured
    to hard work from their youth, and they were devout men, and
    entirely given up to work for the Master. Though receiving
    aid at first from home, they hoped soon to make the mission
    self-supporting. They therefore undertook to do all the manual
    labour themselves. Where others rode they would walk. Where
    others employed natives they would do their own work. They
    would cook their own food, and live in the simplest manner,
    even like the natives of the land. Had the sphere of their
    mission been the wilds of America, or any country at all
    similar in climate to their native Denmark, it would have been
    the right policy, and they might have succeeded. But they soon
    had painful proof that there are laws in Nature, from which
    even missionaries are not exempt; and one of these laws is that
    we cannot do with impunity in the tropics what we may do in the
    temperate zone.

    Some time after their arrival, an opportunity occurred for
    going into Karennee, and they prepared to start for their
    destination. By way of preparation they gave away all their
    extra goods, medicines, clothing, etc., fancying that Matthew
    x. encouraged such a course. We cannot but place in contrast
    this conduct with that of a man like Livingstone. His was a
    self-denying work, if ever there was one; he believed in doing
    the work God called him to do, no matter what difficulties
    stood in the way. But he was no believer in asceticism—_i.e._,
    needless suffering for suffering’s own sake. He relates in
    his “Last Journals” how, when he found his medicine chest was
    hopelessly lost, through the carelessness of a native carrier,
    he felt as if his death warrant were sealed. But these people
    thought it right to give away their medicines and goods on
    leaving the confines of civilisation. Before leaving Toungoo
    they were faithfully warned by experienced missionaries of
    the American Baptist Mission, that such a course as they were
    entering upon, at the beginning of the rains, was exceedingly
    hazardous; but their notions of trust in Providence prevented
    them from paying any heed to this counsel.

    They reached Karennee, after a rough journey over the mountains
    and through the jungles, and proceeded at once to put up
    for themselves a house, and establish the mission according
    to their ideas. It is difficult for any one not knowing
    the country to conceive how hard their lot would be. Their
    sufferings were extreme. Hard work and exposure, together
    with poor food, and only the shelter of a bamboo house, that
    afforded no proper protection from the pitiless rains, and
    damp, cold blasts, soon broke down their health. Fever, the
    great bane of tropical malarious regions, soon found them out.
    Hans Polvsen died before the rains were over, and Jansen was
    brought into Toungoo by the American Baptist missionaries,
    more dead than alive, and kindly nursed and brought round.
    A new party from Denmark now reached Toungoo, consisting of
    Knudsen, his wife, and Miss Jansen, the sister of Hans, and
    the four set out for Karennee. Here the former experiences
    were renewed; for the party had not yet learnt wisdom, even by
    such terrible sufferings. Soon they were all very ill. Miss
    Jansen died: after that a babe, born to the Knudsens after
    reaching Karennee, was also taken. The stricken father had to
    get up from his sick-bed to make the coffins. They could get
    no meat, no bread, no milk, none of the ordinary comforts of
    civilised life, nothing but an inferior kind of rice, which
    they could not eat when sick, and which no European could
    thrive and work upon, even in health. Jansen was warned by an
    English doctor passing through the place with troops, that he
    must get away from Burma, or he would soon die. He went to
    Toungoo again, recovered a little, and, against the earnest
    advice of the doctor there, who warned him that he went at the
    peril of his life, he determined to start on a third journey
    for their chosen mission field. But he never again entered
    Karennee. On reaching the foot of the great mountain range,
    he seated himself beneath the shade of a beautiful arching
    clump of bamboos, and there breathed out his devoted life.
    It is characteristic of the popular, but false ideal of the
    missionary life entertained by many people at home, that, as my
    informant put it,—for by that time his eyes were opened to see
    the matter in its true light,—“They were inclined to make more
    of the ‘heroism’ of that unwise act of returning, and _dying
    on the way_, than they would if he had fulfilled a long career
    of useful service.”

    The Knudsens became so completely broken down in health that
    they too were compelled to leave Karennee. Thus this little
    mission, begun with the highest of motives and carried on with
    quenchless, self-sacrificing, prayerful zeal, was entirely
    and hopelessly wrecked, through its adherence to ascetic
    principles, and had to be finally abandoned, after five years
    of heroic, but utterly wasted, labour and suffering, and
    without any appreciable impression being produced upon the
    natives of that region.

I shall naturally be asked, “What then about those larger missionary
organisations, in different parts of the world, that put asceticism (not
economy) avowedly in the forefront, as one of their leading principles?”
Well, I will only say of them, in brief, that where it is asceticism as
defined above, and not mere economy, facts and experiences have proved
that, in the tropics, it has resulted in a far heavier death-rate, in far
more total or partial failures of health, and, as human nature has its
limits of endurance, in a considerable addition to the numbers in the
column headed “retired from the work.” A proper deduction made from the
working strength of such missions, on account of these non-effectives,
would show, perhaps, that the cheapness supposed to be attained, is more
apparent than real.

On one occasion it was pointed out to the great Napoleon that he was
losing a great many men in a battle; he is credited with the cynical
reply, “You cannot have omelettes without breaking eggs.” In like manner
one at least of these organisations has said boldly, “You cannot have a
war without losing soldiers.”

True; but if the greater part of this loss is clearly needless and
preventible, and if it is the result of want of proper provision being
made, and through the neglect of proper precautions of the most ordinary
kind—then even the sacredness of the purpose does not justify the
recklessness of the methods.

    “Alas, that bread should be so dear!
    And flesh and blood so cheap!”

There remains only one more point which I need to mention, and that
is the utter futility of the ascetic method, if it is used with any
intention of impressing the Oriental mind. The utmost degree of
asceticism which any European could ever think it right to adopt, in the
discharge of his duties as a missionary, would, to an Oriental, fall far
short of his ideal of self-denial, and would not be worth the name. A
writer, with wide experience of India, has put this so well, that I may
as well quote his words.

“The Hindus understand real asceticism perfectly well, and revere it as
a subjugation of the flesh; and if the missionary and his wife carried
out the ascetic life as Hindus understand it, lived in a hut, half or
wholly naked, sought no food but what was given them, and suffered daily
some visible physical pain, they might stir up the reverence which Hindus
pay to those who are palpably superior to human needs. But in their
eyes there is no asceticism in the life of the mean white, the Eurasian
writer, or the Portuguese clerk, but only a squalor unbecoming a teacher,
and one who professes, and must profess, scholarly cultivation.”

I have ventured, not without due reflection, to point out in this chapter
what seems to be a very false ideal of missions and missionaries.
The setting up of the missionary as a spectacle, an object lesson in
self-denial, may be a time-honoured institution, but it ought certainly
to give way now to some more rational method of recommending this
important enterprise. I do not mean to say that this mistake has been
universal, or even general. Many people of knowledge and common sense
have risen above it. But the evidences of this idea to be found still in
prominent places at home, and the instances of it abroad, which are here
cited, prove that there has been in popular thought too much leaning in
that direction, and show that there is need to point out the fallacy, and
the evil of it.

When the simple recital of missionary facts includes the actual
experience of unusual trials and perils—as, alas! must still be the case
sometimes—it will always command sympathy and attention; but to represent
these things as at all comparable in importance to mission _work_, or
to suppose that they essentially belong to it, is neither true nor
judicious. And I have shown that, when this tendency is yielded to in
the mission field, it leads to an asceticism which produces no increase
of usefulness, but a speedy termination of the missionary’s labours.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE.—Since writing the above chapter, an article has appeared in the
_Indian Medical Record_ on “Missionaries and Mortality,” which is so
much to the point, and from such an unexceptionable, independent, and
competent source, that my readers ought to have the benefit of an extract
from it:—

“We would only be just to claim for the missionary every safeguard that
we apply to the lives of Europeans in other callings in India. Good,
wholesome food, suitable clothing, a proper dwelling-house, and ordinary
English home comforts are certainly the least that might be assured to
missionaries working in India. Deprived of these vital necessaries, it
is no wonder that men unused to the enervating influence of the tropics,
burdened with cares and anxieties in the arduous work of an Indian
mission field, should rapidly succumb to conditions so trying and hostile
to their constitutions.

“We have endeavoured to obtain all the information we could upon this
important subject, and we are astounded, both from our own personal
experience, and from reports which reach us from numerous quarters,
at the fearful havoc that goes on yearly in the ranks of the various
missionary bodies who labour in these foreign mission fields. We have
seen scores and scores of men come to the country seemingly full of
vigour and spirits, who within two or three years either die at their
posts, or retire disabled temporarily, and often permanently, with
enfeebled health or utterly ruined constitutions.

“From one of the statements sent us we learn that the mortality has been
as high as twenty-two per cent. in a society that only finds a small
portion of the monthly maintenance allowance for its missionaries. In
another society that works on similar lines the death-rate is eighteen
per cent. per annum. In another, in which the members work without any
allowance, and are compelled to find their food, shelter, and clothing
among the very poorest of the Indian people whom they seek to convert,
the mortality has been as high as thirty-two per cent. per annum; while
its invalid list yields abundant evidence that its methods, while they
may be praiseworthy in their ascetic simplicity, are too sacrificial to
European life to justify their toleration and continuance.

“Missionary zeal and missionary enterprise have done more for India than
any State effort could ever hope to accomplish, and the best work has
been done by those societies which, having a due regard for the health
and safety of their workers, have provided for the proper conservation
and protection of their lives; and lives thus prolonged and preserved
have brought with them accumulated experience, which has yielded the
advantage not only of laying the foundations of lasting and useful work,
but of seeing it cared for, nourished and brought to fruitful perfection
by the hands that inaugurated it. Work to be productive of good in the
mission fields of India must be lifelong. The short service system is
both imbecile and expensive. The languages and habits of the varied
peoples of this vast empire cannot be familiarised sufficiently for
effective work in a few years. But to enjoy good health and to protect
the lives of missionary workers, it is the bounden duty of the great
religious societies of England and America to make a full and ample
provision for the support and comfort of their representatives in India.”




CHAPTER XVI.

_OUR EARLY EXPERIENCES IN THE BURMA MISSION._


I would like to give the reader some intelligent idea of what it means to
establish a new mission in a new country, with an elaborate religion like
Buddhism in possession of the field, and difficult to dislodge.

We make our way up the Irrawaddy by one of the splendid steamers of the
Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, and in due time we land at Mandalay, and
climb the steep bank of the river, and there we are with our few boxes,
strangers in a strange land, knowing nobody belonging to the place, not
a word of the Burmese language, with no mission house to turn into,
no native Christians, and, worst of all, _no native helpers_. After
thirteen years of very happy work in Ceylon, where we have a flourishing
mission and a large staff of native helpers, it required a stout heart
to face the difficulties of pioneer work, and no little faith, hope and
perseverance. Especially did we miss the aid of our native brethren.

The chief value of the European missionary, and of the European
generally, in the East, is in his capacity as a leader of men. Upon
him devolves the initiation, and the vigorous working out, of plans of
aggression, and he has to find the enthusiasm for everybody about him.
But if the European is brain, and heart, and hand to the mission, his
native brethren are equally indispensable as the eyes, ears, and feet. My
native brother has a knowledge of his country, and of his people, and of
all that is going on, extensive, accurate, and intimate beyond anything
I can ever attain unto, and he is in touch with his own people as no
foreigner can ever be—no, not if he spends half a century among them.
This invaluable help I greatly missed.

For some days I lodged with the Rev. J. H. Bateson in a Buddhist
monastery, which had been assigned to him by the military authorities.
He had arrived from England three weeks previously, in the capacity
of Wesleyan Chaplain to the Upper Burma Field Force. It was one of
a considerable number of buildings that had been “annexed” for the
temporary accommodation of the troops, and which were afterwards handed
over again to the Buddhist monks. It was a fine, substantial teak
building, raised six or seven feet from the ground, with a broad verandah
back and front, and consisted of three rooms. The roof was of the usual
fantastic Burmese style, in triple form, and at one end it terminated
in a rather tall spire; and the whole of the building, as usual with
monasteries, was richly decorated with elaborate carvings in wood. Amidst
some disadvantages as a residence it had one very obvious advantage, that
we paid no rent for it.

The first duty lying before me was obviously to commence the study of
the language, and along with that, to look about and find the best sites
for establishing our mission centres, and for the first few months I
gave my attention closely to those matters. Whilst I was making these
preparations for laying the foundations of our future mission work
amongst the natives of the country, there was abundance of work also
ready to hand amongst the soldiers and other English-speaking people,
congregated in a large military and civil station like Mandalay. Mr.
Bateson had to undertake long journeys to other military stations at
intervals, in the course of his duties as chaplain to the troops, and
it fell to my lot to attend to the English congregation in his absence.
I have heard and read of some missionaries who have held that it was no
part of their duty, as missionaries to the heathen, to preach in English
at all. But I never could see that a white skin, and the fact that a man
speaks English, should be deemed to disqualify him from receiving Gospel
ministrations; and I can see no reason why the time and attention given
to our own countrymen need be allowed to interfere materially with the
missionary’s work for the natives. It is in circumstances such as those
of Upper Burma at that time, and amidst the rough experiences of pioneer
life in a new country, that our countrymen most need the ministrations
of the Gospel. In a heathen land and amidst the lax morals which
heathenism engenders, absent from home and friends, and, as it was then
with many, _from wife and family_, and all the ordinary restraints and
helps of civilised life; in some cases away for months together in lonely
stations, where there were no Christian services of any kind, they were
sorely tempted to go astray, and do things they never would have done at
home. I therefore gladly did what I could.

[Illustration: OUR FIRST HOME IN MANDALAY.]

We had “parade services” for the soldiers, and other public services in
English, temperance meetings, Bible classes, and devotional meetings,
in quaint Burmese sacred buildings, with the images of Buddha about,
wherever we could find a place quiet and convenient, for as yet we had
no place of our own set apart for Christian services. Our first public
Sunday services for the soldiers were held in the throne room of the
royal palace, just at the foot of the throne itself. Though this did not
mean much from a missionary point of view, yet it certainly furnished a
strange and romantic association of ideas, to be conducting Christian
worship in such a place as that, in the midst of a heathen palace,
where there had been such a despotic government, and at times so much
cruelty and bloodshed. Ever since that time we have had a building set
apart within the palace precincts for our military services. Many of the
meetings, held amidst such strange and grotesque surroundings, were owned
of God to the spiritual benefit of those who attended; and some were
accompanied by a solemn melting power of the Spirit, confessions of sin,
and aspirations after a better life, such as I have seldom witnessed.
Doubtless these services were useful in reminding many of almost
forgotten truths, and in reviving blessed memories of home and youth,
which, amidst the rough life of campaigning in Burma, they were too apt
to forget.

It was our happiness, during those first years, never to be without some
godly association amongst the officers of the garrison, and also amongst
the civilians; and though there were many removals and changes, we always
found some like-minded, who took pleasure in assisting in the Gospel and
temperance work. They belonged to various sections and denominations of
the Church of Christ, but that made no difference; we were able cordially
to work together.

My colleague, Mr. Bateson, established a temporary Soldiers’ Home,
with a bar for the sale of food and refreshments, and convenience for
reading, writing and games, in a Burmese building granted by the military
authorities for the purpose in the palace; and this proved a very
welcome resort for large numbers of the soldiers, who wished to spend
their evenings in a sober and rational manner. It did excellent service
for a year or two, and was eventually closed for the removal of the
building; a much larger and far more complete Soldiers’ Institute having
by that time been built and furnished by the military authorities.

Attractive as this work was in one’s own language, and amongst one’s own
people, I felt from the first that the mission to the Burmans, though
an incomparably more difficult, less inviting, and less immediately
successful work, was my own most pressing duty, and the work for which I
had specially come. On my arrival in Rangoon I had engaged the services
of a young Burman, and brought him up to Mandalay that he might teach me
Burmese, and with him I commenced the study of the language at once. But
if any one imagines that a native munshee teaches as an English teacher
teaches, he is greatly mistaken. For want of the ability to impart the
knowledge he has, the teaching does not flow from him as from a fountain;
it has to be laboriously pumped out of him, and it requires some
ingenuity to find how to work that pump, and if you fail to pump, or do
not pump judiciously, you get nothing. In learning any Oriental language
you have, in fact, to teach yourself, using the so-called teacher in
much the same way as you would use the dictionary, or any other passive
repository of the necessary knowledge.

In studying Burmese, I found it necessary not only to spend as many hours
as I could daily with my munshee and my books, but to go out amongst the
people for the sake of learning the spoken language. Every language has
some difference between its literary and its colloquial style; and it is
quite possible for the foreigner to know a good deal that he reads in
the books, and yet to be quite nonplussed with the ordinary talk of the
people. Unless the foreigner pays attention to the colloquial, though he
may in time find himself able to talk after a bookish fashion, he will be
unable to make himself properly understood, and unable also to know what
the people say in reply. For this reason I made a practice of going out
of an evening, often with one of my children’s picture books in my hand,
and sitting down amongst the Burmans at their doors, using the pictures
as a means of scraping up a conversation—being myself short of words—with
notebook in hand, to take down every new word or idiom I heard. As the
Burmans appreciate pictures very much, I found this plan always made them
talkative, and thus served my purpose as well as amusing them.

This puts me in mind of an incident which occurred about that time, at
a certain Buddhist monastery, where I was in the habit of spending an
hour or two of an evening, for the purpose of talking Burmese. The long
guerilla war with the forces of disorder and crime was then raging, and
the country generally was in a very disturbed state. Plot after plot was
set on foot for creating an organised disturbance, with a view to harass
the British power, and with some faint hope that they might, by a lucky
chance, get the mastery. Judge of my surprise, when one morning I learnt
that fifty of the ringleaders of a plot of that kind had been discovered
and arrested at midnight, in that very monastery where I was in the habit
of visiting. Next time the local paper appeared we were told that we had
narrowly escaped such a scene of confusion and bloodshed as was common in
the time of the Indian mutiny.

The choice of a site for the mission premises was the first matter to
settle. It involved much going to and fro in that great city, and much
weighing of advantage and disadvantage, for it was a most important
question. At length a block of Government land 5½ acres in extent was
fixed upon. I attended the sale. Several pieces of land were put up for
sale before ours, and the bidding was fairly brisk. When ours was put
up I made a bid; not another voice was heard; they all abstained from
bidding because the land was for mission purposes, though I had said
not a word on the matter to anybody, and it was knocked down to us at
the merely nominal price of one hundred rupees an acre (say £7 10_s._).
A substantial mission house of teak was at once commenced, and at the
earliest possible date we moved into it. Later on we erected on this land
a Boys’ Training Institution for teachers, and a Girls’ Boarding School
and Training Institution, and a humble beginning has thus been made in
the work of training native helpers, the end of which who can predict?

For the first year we lived there we had no proper roads, and when the
rainy season came on, we were separated from the rest of the world by a
sea of soft, tenacious, black mud, ankle deep; and for many days I could
not get either to or from the house without taking off my shoes and
socks, and wading barefoot through it. But in course of time these early
pioneer experiences became things of the past. Other houses were built
around us, also the Government Courts and offices; good streets were made
and lighted with lamps at night, and drains were dug at the sides of the
roads to run off the surplus water, and things gradually got into shape.

In September 1887 two more workers arrived—two Singhalese young men,
trained by our mission in South Ceylon. We do not of course contemplate
permanently looking to Ceylon to supply us with men, but at the outset
of the mission it seemed likely that these brethren, being from an older
Christian community, and far better educated and trained than any Burmans
could possibly be for years to come, would be able to render us material
help in the pioneer work, and would bring to bear upon it a degree of
Christian knowledge, and a maturity of Christian character and habits,
far in advance of anything in Burma. These two brethren are now working
in the mission with a fair measure of success, and have justified the
expectation we formed of them. Their success in acquiring the language,
and their consistent Christian life, as they have gone in and out amongst
the people, have been a stay and a help to the work.

It was our desire from the first to begin an Anglo-vernacular school
in Mandalay, as the first of a series of educational efforts. It is
self-evident to the experienced eye that so long as the youth of Burma
remain in the hands of the monks, in connection with the monastery
schools, to learn idleness, and to have all the springs of life and
thought saturated with Buddhism from their youth, the downfall of that
religion will be indefinitely postponed. We must enter into friendly
competition with the monastery schools, must take hold of the awakening
desire for Western learning, and we must give an education so undeniably
better than the monks can give that we shall thus win our way to success.
I have used, about equally, each and every kind of missionary method
within my reach, and I hold no brief for the educational method; but
thirteen years of mission work amongst the Hindus in Ceylon, where we
have an elaborate system of religion to deal with, has shown me that,
in the long run, Christian education plays quite as important a part
in the conversion of the people as any other agency. The educational
and evangelistic work go hand in hand, and we cannot afford to dispense
with either. Educational work gives a backbone of intelligence and
solidity to the mission, and to the converts; it introduces us to the
most intelligent and influential classes of the people, and gives us
a powerful influence we could acquire in no other way, and it leads
directly to hopeful conversions. So long as we are merely the preachers
of another religion amongst them, our influence is circumscribed within
that condition. But if, in addition to that, we move amongst the people
as the trusted guides and teachers of their youth, it vastly increases
our power for good. In the East the teacher of the young is always
treated with the utmost respect. And this position of influence, which so
legitimately belongs to the preachers of the Gospel, we cannot afford to
despise or forego.

After advertising for several months for teachers, we managed at last to
engage a young Christian Karen, from Lower Burma, as the teacher, and
we began a school in a rented house, near the centre of the town. This
school has developed into a good Anglo-vernacular School. In due course,
and after much trouble and delay, from having to buy up some twenty or
thirty small holdings, with bamboo houses on them, we managed to secure
and clear a good site, and there we erected a neat, substantial brick
school-chapel, to which our work was transferred from the rented house,
and there we have regularly held services in English, in Burmese, and in
Tamil.

We early commenced street preaching in Mandalay, and have continued to
hold several open-air meetings every week. As a means of publishing the
Gospel to the people at large, we have found nothing better. The streets
of Mandalay are broad and spacious, so that even a large crowd does not
impede the traffic. The people are generally very willing to listen,
tolerant, respectful, and not inclined to cavil. We usually commence by
singing a hymn. A number of children are on the scene at once, some of
them quite naked up to seven or eight years of age. By the time we have
finished the hymn, a crowd of men, women and children has collected, and
most of them, having once come, stay till the close. The people, as a
rule, look well nourished and healthy, but in almost every Oriental crowd
there are evidences of the prevalence of skin disease, in one form or
another. Amongst the Tamil people itch is the special form, and in Burma
there is quite an excess of ringworm. In Burma many of the people are
observed to be pitted with smallpox, for until lately, vaccination was
not practised in Upper Burma; and ophthalmia is not uncommon, especially
amongst children. The individuals composing the crowd change somewhat.
Some are only passers-by, and have to go about their errands; others
again have to retire, to attend to household duties. Occasionally a man
leaves because he feels a prejudice against hearing the doctrine, or, as
one old man put it, because if he listened he would only get “mixed” in
his mind. But for the most part they stay and listen attentively until
the end. In trying to follow up the address, by conversation with the
people at their doors after preaching, I have generally found the Burmans
reticent, but still polite.

They are certainly good-natured hearers, and give the preacher a
fair chance. To see them sitting on their heels, or on the ground,
placidly smoking their cheroots, and looking intently, nodding the head
occasionally, and interjecting, “Hoakba, Hoakba” (true, true), one might
go away with the idea that they had intelligently taken in the whole
discourse, but it does not do to be too sanguine about that. It has to
be taken into account that though they may understand the words used,
they are sure at first to understand them in a Buddhist sense; and there
is such a great deal that is absolutely new to them in Christianity,
so many strange names and unfamiliar ideas, that the subject matter of
the discourse is by no means easy for them to understand. We are much
more liable to underrate than to overrate the difficulty all heathen
people have in understanding Christian preaching, at the first. In
addressing them on the subject of religion we must use religious terms.
But unfortunately those terms have already a Buddhist meaning clinging to
them, which is widely different from the Christian sense; and the higher
the truths to which we are seeking to give expression, the greater is the
difficulty of putting the meaning into the words at our disposal. How are
you to get a Buddhist to realise, for example, any adequate notion of the
Divine Being, when he has no such conception in his own religion?

True, there is the word “Paya,” and that is the word we have to use. But
what meaning does that word convey to a Buddhist? It means primarily
Buddha himself, and the philologists tell us that it is that name in
another dress. But Buddha never claimed to be God. He was a sage,
philosopher, religious reformer, ascetic, who lived and died, and,
according to Buddhist teaching, passed into Nirvana, five centuries
before Christ. “Paya” may mean also the image of Buddha; or it may
be applied to the shrine in which the image is placed; or it may be
applied—alas! for the degradation of human language—to you, or to me, or
to any person, Burman or European, whom, for the time being, it is worth
while to treat with rather a special degree of respect. Which of these
meanings attaching to this Burmese word “Paya” brings us even a single
step towards the true conception of the Christian revelation of God? And
yet, inadequate as it is, it is all the name there is for us to use.

Even the familiar term “man,” about which it might seem there could
hardly be two opinions, is subject to the same difficulty, when it comes
to be used in a theological and religious sense. What with the doctrines
of transmigration, and _karma_, which, as we have already seen, the
Burmans all firmly believe, the real nature, and circumstances, and final
destiny of human beings, as we have to teach these truths, are all new
and strange to their minds.

“Sin” is a thing to be recognised and dealt with in preaching; but
here again precisely the same difficulty meets you as you stand before
a congregation of Burman Buddhists. The Burman, like other Orientals,
will not, probably, deny the _fact_ of sin, but if you come to know
his notion of what sin is, you will find that it is very different from
yours, and that the term does not at all cover the same ground when used
in his language and to him, as it does in yours to you. Nor can you,
all at once, read into his term for sin the ideas you wish to teach,
by merely using it in preaching; that reading in of new meanings is a
lengthy process.

[Illustration: A DEPOSITORY FOR IMAGES OF BUDDHA.]

Of sacrifice for sin, or the necessity for it, or its efficacy, the
Buddhist religion knows nothing; there is no Mediator, no atonement, no
pardon, no renewal of our nature; so that all allusions to these great
cardinal truths of the Christian religion will carry at first no meaning
whatsoever, and the utmost they can do at first is to say with the
Athenians, “Thou bringest certain strange things to our ears: we would
know therefore what these things mean.”

The simplicity of the Gospel is often made a theme of in Christian
circles, and it is simple _when one has been trained up from infancy
in its principles, and facts, and lessons_, but in the case of a
heathen people, brought up in an elaborate system of religion alien to
Christianity, the simplicity cannot be at all apparent.

And, should the preacher, unmindful of the uninstructed condition of his
heathen audience, allow himself to slip into the well known metaphors,
and allusions, and phraseology—that “language of Canaan,” in which
Christians often express themselves on religious subjects—it will become
in the vernacular nothing more than a jargon.

An incident will illustrate this. One Sunday afternoon I went, in company
with a missionary brother, who had just arrived in Burma, to hold an
out-door service. We sang a hymn to begin with, which I may say was not
with any idea that they would understand it, but merely to attract the
people to come and hear the preaching. When the singing was finished, he
very naturally suggested that it would be well to explain the hymn. It so
happened that we had, inadvertently, hit upon a Burmese translation of
that well-known hymn—

    “There is a fountain filled with blood,
      Drawn from Immanuel’s veins,
    And sinners plunged beneath that flood
      Lose all their guilty stains.”

Let me ask the reader to divest his mind for a moment of every sacred
association surrounding that hymn, and calmly consider the words just as
they stand, and try to imagine what sense, if any, they would convey to
the mind of a pious Buddhist, whose ideas of sin are totally different
from ours, who has no conception of the nature or need of a sacrifice
or atonement, and to whom the shedding of blood, and the taking of all
life, even the killing of an insect, is utterly abhorrent, as a deadly
sin. Since that incident I have not been inclined to select that hymn for
out-door services.

We avoid controversy in preaching to the Buddhists. It seems to be quite
unnecessary, and likely to do far more harm than good. The best thing
we can do is to tell, as simply and plainly as we can, such portion of
the Scripture narrative, particularly the life and teachings of Christ,
as we find they can easily grasp, and to deal with the more prominent
doctrines of the Christian religion, as they apply to the hearts and
lives of the people before us. It is only when a Buddhist has grasped at
least the outlines of Christian truth, and not before, that he will be in
any position to assent to the proposition that Buddhism is false. Until
he does see that, the assertion in public that it is false, together with
all that is said in disparagement of it, must appear to him premature, if
not gratuitously abusive. In any case it is the unfolding of the truth
that convinces, as it is the belief of the truth (not disbelief in error)
that saves. No Oriental can fail to see for himself that the teaching of
Christ is antagonistic to that of his own religion, on many essential
points, and the clear exposition of our own teaching, therefore, is far
more essential than emphasizing the differences. One evening, at a street
service, a foolish Burman endeavoured to make it out that their religion
and ours taught the very same. The incredulous smiles on the faces of
the audience at once showed us that it was unnecessary for us to say
more than that _if_ their religion taught the same as ours, so much the
better. The wish was father to the thought in that case, and the fact
that he saw a difference made him anxious to prove there was none. In
cases where a person wishes to study the teachings of the two religions,
and compare the two closely, the best plan is to put into his hands a
tract bearing on the subject, and let him take it home and study it,
rather than engage in heated controversy in the streets.

At the same time we do not wish to silence respectful inquiry.
Occasionally a question has been asked at these street services, but we
have never experienced anything approaching to abuse or disturbance.
One evening, not a Burman but a Ponnâ, an astrologer, one of the
fortune-telling fraternity, the descendants of the Brahmins from Manipur,
spoke up and said he had an inquiry to make. It was with reference to the
putting away of sin through Christ, of which we were speaking, and the
inquiry seemed quite respectful, and _bonâ fide_. For his part he could
not see how there could be any putting away of sin. If there was, where
was it? For example, said he, if a man commits murder, he receives the
full penalty of his crime in the body by hanging; and as for the spirit,
that passes, by transmigration, at once into some other body, where it
receives the appropriate consequences of past deeds, according to the
man’s _karma_ (fate), irrespective of any atonement or any intervention
of another. What place then was there for the pardon and removal of
transgression? This question will show that in Burma we have to do with
a people not wanting in acuteness. Our answer was an explanation of the
Christian doctrine of a future life.

At the end of our first year we were able to report that we had made a
beginning in preaching the Gospel in the vernacular. It was a humble
beginning, and consisted only of reading to a small congregation, in
the little rented schoolroom, before we built our own, a short written
address; only a beginning, but a beginning in the right direction. We
were also glad to welcome an addition to our little staff of workers, in
the Rev. A. H. Bestall, a missionary sent out from England.

[Illustration: “THE BURMESE LADIES ARE FAMILIAR WITH THE MYSTERY OF
THE CHIGNON, AND WITH THE MANUFACTURE AND USE OF COSMETICS, FOR THE
IMPROVEMENT OF THE COMPLEXION, TO SAY NOTHING OF SCENTS AND ARTIFICIAL
FLOWERS.”]




CHAPTER XVII.

_FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS._


It was during our second year in Burma that we opened two new mission
stations, one at Kyaukse, and the other at Pakokku. Kyaukse is a town
twenty-nine miles south of Mandalay, on the new line of railway, and the
centre of the most fertile and best irrigated district in Upper Burma.
Our work in Kyaukse has, from the first, been in charge of one of our
Singhalese preachers, and its record, up to the present, has been chiefly
of preliminary work.

Pakokku is a town of some size and commercial importance, as a river
port and place of trade. It is situated at the junction of the Chindwin
river with the Irrawaddy, and is likely to rise in importance, as the
country behind it becomes more settled, and increases its productions,
and as the trade on the Chindwin is developed. The Pakokku district was,
during the earlier years of British rule, the scene of much disturbance,
but this did not prevent us from taking the opportunity, afforded by
the development of Pakokku, to establish our mission there. Mr. Bestall
commenced the work there in the latter part of 1888. As the circumstances
at Pakokku illustrate one or two points in mission work, I may with
advantage relate them.

On his arrival at Pakokku Mr. Bestall was waited upon by the elders
of the town, who were also members of the municipality, and men of
influence, and he was politely informed that Pakokku did not want
Christianity, and it would be better if he would not preach it amongst
them. Here was a damper for the new missionary; they were determined,
it seemed, not even to give him a hearing. He received them with good
humour, and assured them that he would not teach them anything but what
was for their good. He took a bamboo house to live and carry on his work
in. It was not deserving of any better name than a hut; but for about a
year he lived there, preached there, taught school there, and built up
a singularly powerful influence, especially considering the disposition
with which the people first greeted him. He commenced a school. At first
the children who came to the mission school did so under difficulties,
having to encounter the maledictions of the monks, and to go in face
of the cheerful prospect, held out to them, of descending, in the next
birth, to the condition of vermin, if they persisted in receiving the
instructions of the missionary.

[Illustration: SCHOOL-CHAPEL AT PAKOKKU.]

But the superior quality of the instruction given, and a cheerful,
friendly manner towards all, soon disarmed this ill-will and obstruction;
the school prospered, and the meetings were well attended. There was
another Anglo-vernacular school of the same grade as ours in the town,
which, being supported out of municipal funds, could afford to take
boys at half the fees we charged, and it had all the weight of official
and influential support at its back. But the better work done in the
mission school told here also, and it was not long before we held the
field without a rival. As early as the second year at Pakokku, all this
difficulty and opposition had melted away. The Report of the Mission for
1890 states, as regards Pakokku:—

“This year has witnessed three baptisms from Buddhism. In the case
of each, long research and definite decision preceded the Christian
rite. The ages of the three were thirty-four, twenty and seventeen.
The young man aged twenty on being asked, ‘Are you ready to confess
Christ before men?’ replied in his usual serious manner: ‘I know that
the Buddhist religion is without a Saviour, and that Jesus Christ saves
from sin.’ This youth for two years had been a seeker after Christ,
and by his earnest, thoughtful course of conduct had often impressed
us. The day school has greatly increased during the year, and in April
the municipality _voluntarily closed its school in our favour_, and
entrusted the education of the scholars to our care, _giving us a
substantial grant towards the working expenses of the school_. This
action has been specially encouraging to us, for on our opening the
Mission on this station, influential members of the municipality met
us, and seriously asked us to relinquish our purpose, of endeavouring
to plant the Christian faith in the midst of the Buddhism which they
loved so well. The sons of most of these members are now with confidence
committed to our trust, and this in the face of the fact that the best
hour of the day’s work is regularly devoted to teaching the Scriptures.
The tone of the school is good, the attendance at our two Sunday Burmese
services encouraging. The pupil teacher has been baptised, and there is
a work going on in the hearts of some of the boys, which gives us great
hope of their salvation. The number on the roll is fifty. The results of
the December Government Examinations are most satisfactory. Out of twelve
presented from our school ten passed. Out of three Scholarships gained
by the whole of Upper Burma two fell to us, while one boy took the first
prize for the province in English.”

This report shows what hard work can do in the face of discouraging
circumstances, and it is also a very clear illustration of the way in
which Christian educational work, when wisely conducted, is a valuable
assistance to mission work.

So successful and promising a work must needs have permanent mission
premises in which to carry it on. Simultaneously with this educational
and evangelistic work, our pioneer missionary there had also to undertake
the worry of purchasing land, and building a school-chapel, similar to
the one at Mandalay. As a mission site, he purchased over four acres of
land in a most eligible, central and healthy situation, and at the same
price as we paid in Mandalay. It was so cheap that, before long, Mr.
Bestall was offered four times what he gave for it. The work of building
there was peculiarly slow and trying, owing to the stupidity of the
Burman workmen; but at length the school-chapel was finished, and our
work in Pakokku assumed definite shape.

The purchase of the site for the school-chapel, and the erection of the
building at Mandalay, furnished an experience sufficiently trying to my
patience, and consumed a great deal of valuable time, and I could not but
wish I had some native brethren, to share the burden of these tedious
details. Time is no object to the Oriental, and in dealing with him you
have to be prepared to see much precious time wasted. Having chosen the
site that seemed on the whole best, the next thing was to purchase it. It
was a square piece of land, about an acre and a half in extent, bounded
on two sides by the public streets, and on these two sides there were
about twenty-five bamboo houses, each in a little plot of ground, all
belonging to different owners, besides six or seven more houses inside
the square. In the Burmese times no deeds were used; everything went by
word of mouth; indeed there hardly could be said to be any property in
land, as everything belonged to the king. It was therefore, after the
annexation, a matter of no little delicacy and risk to buy land, as the
evidence of ownership, in the absence of deeds, was most precarious. The
danger was that the buyer, in the absence of any local knowledge, should
buy from some one who could not prove his title, and afterwards should
have to purchase it over again from the real owner. A great deal of
property changed hands at that time in Mandalay, and this mishap occurred
in some cases. In the case of the Mission, although in our three stations
we had to purchase from thirty or forty different owners, we managed in
every case to make one payment serve.

I also found that there were amongst the dwellers on the site of the
school-chapel, three different kinds of tenure, and we had to be careful
not to purchase what the holder had no power to sell. Some six or seven
people were merely squatters, and had put up their bamboo houses there
without any right or title to the land. The greater number held the
land on what is known in Mandalay as the _Ahmudan_ tenure. They were
the soldiers, if we might call them such, or retainers of the king, and
held only a temporary or conditional interest in the land, by virtue of
military service. One only, out of the whole number, could be regarded
as the freehold possessor. We had to pay accordingly to each. It was a
tedious business finding out all this. Some of the cases were troublesome
to settle. One in particular was in dispute between a certain widow, and
a man who is a leper, a relative of hers, for some time both claiming the
ownership. At length we reached the end of the negotiations, the last of
the bamboo houses was taken down and removed, and we were free to begin
with the building.

I have mentioned these matters to show the variety of the business
details that enter into pioneer mission work, and how many things
the missionary has to take up his time. When it came to building the
school-chapel, it proved a very lengthy and wearisome affair, on
account of the idleness and dilatory habits of the Burman mason who had
undertaken the contract. As the work proceeded he became more clamorous
for advances of money, and less inclined to do any work. Thrice the
building came to a perfect standstill; he declared he would not work
without money in hand; twice I managed to get him to start again, wishing
him to complete the contract if possible. But finding, at length, that
he never meant to finish it, I had to let him go, and employ a native
of India to do the rest of the work, losing something, of course, by
the change of contract. With all my love for the Burmans, and a sincere
desire to befriend them, I almost resolved never to employ a Burman mason
again. This lack of steadiness, reliableness, and patient continuance, is
a defect in the national character. They allow most of the prosperity to
slip past them, in this way, into the hands of Chinamen and natives of
India.

At length, however, the building was finished, a neat, substantial,
well-ventilated school-chapel, sixty feet by thirty-six, with a neat
portico in front, and two stories high. This building was no sooner
finished than we began to find the great advantage of it in our work. It
forms an excellent centre, both for educational and evangelistic work,
and is put to constant use. On a Sunday we commence with a soldiers’
parade service at seven in the morning, from eight to nine the Tamil
service, and from nine to ten the Burmese, three services in three
languages in the morning. At five in the afternoon we have an out-door
service in Burmese near the chapel, and at six o’clock the English
service, at which all classes of English-speaking people, both military
and civilian, attend. Day by day we have school there, and one evening
a week a Bible-class in English, and another evening a magic-lantern
exhibition, with Scripture slides only, for the purpose of preaching
the Gospel to the Burmans. We have found the latter an exceedingly
useful method of preaching the Gospel in Burma. The Burmans have a good
appreciation of pictures, and we have found no difficulty in crowding
the chapel, week after week, in this way. By this means great numbers of
the people have been able, through the eye, as well as through the ear,
to gather some definite information about the life and teachings of our
Saviour and the great cardinal truths of the Gospel.

[Illustration: “AT LENGTH, HOWEVER, THE SCHOOL-CHAPEL AT MANDALAY WAS
FINISHED.”]

The purchase of the mission land at Kyaukse was another opportunity of
getting an insight into Burmese ways. It was a well-situated plot of
land that we chose for the mission premises, about an acre in extent,
and was the property of the old Myo-woon or governor of the town, an
ancient-looking man, decrepit and almost blind, but with wits as sharp
as needles, and very proud and difficult to manage. He wanted to sell. I
offered a price for the land that was fair and reasonable. After trying,
of course, all he could to get more, he finally agreed to sell it for the
price I offered. When all was settled I went over to Kyaukse by train
with the money, but there was some hitch, and I had to come back again
without settling it. A second time I went, and this time all was in
readiness. I thought we might finish the matter in half an hour, and take
the next train home again. Nothing of the sort. So many frivolous points
of difficulty were raised, even after all the talk there had been before,
that it took three or four hours to finish it.

First there was the phraseology of the deed to haggle over, though that
was quite unnecessary. Then the conditions of sale, although everything
was as clear as it could well be. The last rallying point of the
retreating foe was in the matter of the fence, and here it seemed as if
the business would really come to a standstill.

If he sold the land, he must, at any rate, be allowed to remove the fence
all round the property.

To this I replied that, in the whole course of my experience, I had never
heard of such a proposal. The fence belonged to the land, and served to
mark it out, and was most important evidence, in case of dispute as to
boundaries. If we bought the land how could we give him the fence?

But the Myo-woon wanted the fence.

Very well then, we could not buy on those terms.

The scribe who was proceeding with the writing of the deed, ceased when
negotiations came to this abrupt termination, and we all sat silent,
gazing into vacancy for several minutes, the old Myo-woon, with his
almost sightless eyes, looking particularly studious. After giving me
plenty of time to relent in his favour, and finding no relenting, he
abated his terms, and made it only the east and west sides that he must
have.

No.

Then the eastern fence only.

No.

Then let him have the posts of the fence.

Not a stick.

On finding me quite resolute in the determination to have fair
terms, he surrendered the position with a grace that was really
wonderful, considering the absurd and audacious attempt he had made at
over-reaching; and he showed a truly Burmese ability, to smooth over, by
neat phrase, and courtly style, what a European in his position must have
felt as a most awkward dispute.

Europeans wonder sometimes at the outrageous way Orientals have of making
claims and requests, which seem to them unfair and impudent to the last
degree, and they sometimes feel inclined to lose patience with them about
it. I think their doctrine of Fate may account for this propensity. In
looking after himself, the mind of the Oriental does not run on what
is true, just, proper, or reasonable, but what will the Fates grant;
and he likes to frame his request or demand on the off-chance that your
charity, or necessity, or complaisance, or ignorance may induce you to
yield to him. Thus, supposing six annas to be reasonable, if he asks for
six annas, and gets it, he may, on that ground, see cause to upbraid
himself for neglect of his own interests, in not trying to get twelve.
If, however, he gets less than he asks for, or nothing at all, he can,
with the aid of the doctrine of Fate, take it with equanimity, for he
has, at any rate, given the Fates a fair chance, and got as much as it
was destined for him to get.

It was at an early period of our work in Burma that we felt it very
desirable to take steps towards the training of mission workers from
amongst the people. Our schools will want teachers, and we shall need to
multiply these agencies greatly before our influence is widely felt. We
need catechists to instruct the people in the Christian religion, and as
our native churches spring up and grow, we shall need native pastors to
minister to them. If we had five hundred such workers, we could easily
find work for them. But where are these workers? You look around for
them in vain. They do not exist. They will not rise up of themselves; we
must grow them; we must take them as they are, in the rough, and train
them. Heathenism cannot produce persons ready to our hands, with the
character, the knowledge, and the experience requisite for Christian work.

In commencing this department of his work, the pioneer missionary must
be content to begin at the very beginning. He cannot afford to hold his
hands in this matter, and wait for better, or the best, material. Time
is too precious for unnecessary waiting. Every year is valuable, and it
ought to be his aim to shorten the initial years of paucity of workers,
as much as possible, by seeking to provide them early. He had better
commence with such material as he can find, and not be disheartened,
however many failures and disappointments there may be. A wise missionary
will take care to have always about him a number of young disciples,
whom he is training or trying to train, and into whom he is endeavouring
to infuse as much as he can of himself, and the Christian training of
centuries past which he embodies,—his knowledge, methods, thoughts and
aspirations, together with his spirit and example. All the best native
ministers, catechists and teachers I have known during many years, have
been men who cherished with gratitude the memory of their association
with some missionary, and his training and example. And there is no
mission work, earnestly persisted in, that is surer of its reward than
the labour we spend on our young native brethren.

We commenced this work with a very humble effort in the way of a
preparatory school, into which we gathered, from time to time, those who
were desirous of following the studies that would fit them for teaching.
Our experience illustrates the kind of difficulties that may be expected
in a work of this kind, and it also illustrates that, although at the
outset the failures and disappointments will be more numerous than the
successes, yet even then all is not lost, and if even only one good
teacher or preacher be secured out of the first batch, that one will be
worth all the labour. Afterwards, when things get more into shape, and
we can make a better selection, we shall be correspondingly better off.

We had gathered eight Burman youths together in this preparatory
boarding school on the Mission premises. I had them regularly taught by
a conscientious and faithful native Christian teacher. They attended
Divine service regularly, and we took pains to give them, in the school,
Christian instruction, together with the course of secular instruction
that seemed adapted for them. One day I went into the school and found
all ominously quiet.

“Where are the boys?”

“All gone but one.”

“Gone? Where?” The matter was soon explained. The newly appointed Sawbwa
of Momeit, a semi-independent chieftain, ruling a mountain district a few
days’ journey north of Mandalay, being in need of more followers, some of
his men got at these boys of ours, and persuaded them that a career of
prosperity would open up to them, if they elected to follow the Sawbwa.
These visions of prosperity proved too much of a temptation for these
lads, so without as much as “good-bye” they had taken their departure,
in the usual Burmese light-hearted way; and by the time we discovered
they were missing, they were on their way up the river by steamer, in
attendance on the new Sawbwa. One of the youths, however, our most
hopeful one, K. by name, had quite privately made a remark to the youth
who did not go, from which there seemed reason to hope that, in spite of
his yielding to the temptation to leave, there was the root of the matter
in him, and some hope that it might still result in good. He told this
lad that wherever he went he meant to preach Christ. That remark was a
good sign, but our disappointment was great.

In due time the young adventurers found the wisdom of that counsel, “Put
not your trust in princes.” The Sawbwa never made good his promises.
No prosperous career opened out to them, nothing better than lounging
about the dirty village of Momeit, which constituted his capital. One
by one they left the Sawbwa. Most of them I never saw again, but K.,
the one of whom we had most hopes, came back to us, and is with us
still. Notwithstanding this and other disappointments, we still hold on
in this enterprise of training workers, and mean to do so. K. was the
first convert I baptised in Burma, and we have good hopes that he will
prove a useful preacher. He certainly has talents in this direction.
From the first he has shown more than ordinary intelligence and aptitude
for study, and a marked love for the Word of God. Finding in him
this aptitude, I commenced to give him, in Burmese, systematic daily
instruction in Bible studies and theology. I was surprised to find the
progress he had already made, and his extreme aptitude for understanding
and imparting it. With intelligence and abilities for study, and with the
taste for it, and a good natural utterance, we have great hopes of K.;
but knowing what we do of the immoralities so common in Burman society,
and the temptations to which young men are subject, we have to tremble,
and to exercise watchful care, and to pray that the grace of God in him
may prevail. The late C. H. Spurgeon has well said, “To build cathedrals
is a little work compared with building up preachers.”

A communication recently to hand, from my friend and colleague Mr.
Bestall, gives gratifying news of the young men at present in this
training school, and gives us good ground to hope that this work is not
in vain. Describing the young men he says:—

“K. first heard of Christ in 1888. It would be difficult to find a
more fluent speaker or more earnest student. He preaches well and
thoughtfully, and we hope to have more to report of him in years to come.

“G. N. is with him. He is an ex-Buddhist monk. He left Buddhism, and for
some months has been diligently studying the Scriptures. He preaches in
a very different style from K. He is quite familiar with the Buddhist
prayers in Pali, and usually prefaces his remarks by a short recital.
Having gained the ear of all, he continues, ‘I don’t pray like that now.
Why?’ and then he begins his address.

“T. follows. He has been studying for two years, and is developing into
an intelligent believer in the Gospel.

“S. is training for the work of a Christian teacher, and always
accompanies the preachers to the out-door services.

“Lastly comes N., a quiet, earnest young man, who of his own accord has
left a comfortable home to be trained in the Scriptures.”

With regard to our general work, we have had converts each year after
the first. There is no sign as yet of any great ingathering, but on
each station steady, plodding work has brought its reward. Our earnest
endeavour has been to commence on sound principles, making ample use
of the accumulated experiences of many past years, and to build the
foundations strongly and deeply, rather than to aim at mere rapidity,
which, in Burma, would be apt to end in disappointment. We have made
perceptible progress from year to year in the hold we have on the people,
the language and the work generally.

One of our most important enterprises is a Boarding School and Training
Institution for girls. We aim not only at the conversion of individuals,
but also to constitute Christian homes in Burma, and for that purpose
we must have women converted as well as men, and as many of them as of
men. If special efforts are not directed to the conversion of women in
these Eastern lands, there is great danger of the work being one-sided.
The demand for the education of boys is much greater than for the girls,
consequently many more boys than girls are placed for training under
our care, and the natural consequence is that we are apt to have male
converts in excess of female. In the earlier days of mission work in the
East it was often so, and this in some cases perceptibly retarded the
progress of the work. In some of the harder mission fields, the progress
would have been much greater if, from the very first, adequate attention
could have been given to women. Surely we ought to profit by that
experience in every new mission field taken up now.

[Illustration: “THERE ARE NO ZENANAS AMONG THE BURMANS, NO KEEPING OF
WOMEN SHUT UP.”]

What happens when the converts amongst the young men are considerably
more numerous than amongst the girls? The time comes for the young men
to marry, and they marry heathen wives, because it is unavoidable.
Generally speaking, if a woman is a heathen when she marries, she remains
so to the end of the chapter. There were in the earlier days, thirty
or forty years ago, many instances of this in Ceylon, the results of
which are seen to this day, and what we see is admonitory. I remember
one, a typical case, of an elderly man, a Christian teacher, whom I
knew intimately. He had a heathen wife. “There were none of these
Girls’ Boarding Schools when I was young, to train our Tamil girls,”
he would say, “and so I married a heathen,” and a great trouble it was
to him. She was agreeable enough to live with, but totally illiterate,
and a rigid Hindu. Everything was done that could be done for her, but
she was, as usual, impervious to all influences, and remained in the
Hindu faith till the day of her death. It was very seldom that a woman
accepted Christianity _after_ she was married, whereas a few months under
Christian instruction _before_ almost always inclined them firmly to the
Christian faith. In Jaffna, where we have our largest Girls’ Institution
in that mission, where there are always some eighty or ninety girls,
the Christian influence is so strong, and the minds of the young are so
impressible, that they practically all embrace Christianity within a
few weeks of their entrance. There are never more than a few new comers
unbaptised, who are only waiting that they may learn a little more, or
to obtain the consent of their friends and guardians; and it is the same
with all the institutions of the kind in our own, and the neighbouring
missions. If missionary experience has proved anything in the East, it
has proved that no work is more abiding or more remunerative than work
done for girls, from ten to fifteen years of age.

Another case in Ceylon was that of a native gentleman, a Christian of
good standing and respectable position. He married a heathen wife,
because Christian wives were not then to be found. I never knew him, he
died before my time, but I knew his family. They are now grown up and
in middle life. Under the mother’s influence they were brought up as
heathens, although the father was a Christian, and when the boys went to
school, they had to be dealt with as other heathen lads. Two of them were
happily converted and baptised into the Christian faith, after they were
grown up, but the rest of the family are all rigid heathens to this day,
and their children also. Experience in such cases amply proves that only
when the wife and mother is a Christian before marriage, can the family
be relied on as a Christian family. If not, you may expect to have all
the work to do over again in the next generation. This is woman’s nature
all the world over—

    “If she will, she will, you may depend on it;
    But if she won’t, she won’t, and there’s an end of it.”

The family depends more on the mother than on any one else for its
religious tone.

Besides that, we require, in Burma, female teachers for the girls’
schools that we need to establish everywhere, in the towns and villages
of the country, and we need Biblewomen to go from house to house teaching
the Word of God. The preachers and teachers whom we are seeking to train
will need Christian wives. Where are all these Christian girls? They
are not in existence. They have to be created. There is nothing for it
but to open these Girls’ Institutions, and commence with such material
as comes to hand. The method found, in all the missions in the East, to
be best adapted to secure the conversion and training of native girls
and young women, is a boarding school in connection with each principal
station where English missionaries reside, in close proximity to the
mission house, and under the care of the missionary’s wife or some other
English lady, where regular secular and religious instruction may be
given, without the continual drawback of irregular attendance, which is
found in day schools for girls. We make no attempt to denationalise them,
or to teach them expensive English habits. They live in the same frugal
way as they did at home, and have their food cooked and served up exactly
in the same style, squatting like tailors on the floor, and eating their
rice with their fingers, without the intervention of knife and fork, just
as they have always done. They follow their own fashion in dress, which
has this great advantage over European fashions, that it never changes
a hair’s breadth; and they spread a mat on the floor to sleep at night.
Daily there is Christian instruction, and family prayers, and they are
taken to Divine service on Sundays.

Under these conditions it is never long before a girl comes asking for
baptism. This result, provided these means are adopted, is just as sure
as the hopes of a woman’s conversion without them are precarious, in a
heathen land. Up to the present our Girls’ Institution is only in its
infancy, and we are only able to furnish one example to show what I
mean; but as this is the only case where the circumstances have rendered
it possible to test these methods in Burma, and it is a success, I may
briefly give the facts. We could find hundreds of examples in Ceylon.

Some two and a half years ago Colonel Cooke, then the Deputy Commissioner
of Mandalay, informed me one day that he had received, and forwarded to
the provincial government, a petition from the relatives of a certain
Burmese princess in Mandalay, asking for some charitable allowance for
her support. Though quite destitute, she was the niece of King Theebaw,
her father being one of the half-brothers of the king, and he was one
of those unfortunate princes put to death in the two dreadful massacres
that disgraced the reign of the last of the Burmese kings. The Deputy
Commissioner recommended the case to the favourable notice of Government,
on condition that the girl, then about fifteen years of age, should be
placed in the Mission boarding school, under the eye of the missionary’s
wife. This is the usual condition in such cases; and it was in order to
secure the proper charge of the girl, and a suitable education for her,
and to ensure that the twenty rupees monthly, allowed by Government, are
really spent on her, and not on somebody else.

She came, and has remained in the school ever since, going on with
her education, and receiving a Christian training, though no pressure
whatever has at any time been used to induce her to become a Christian,
nothing beyond what we give to all the children, and all the members of
the public congregation. There is indeed no necessity for any urging with
young people, when the Gospel has a fair chance. They themselves desire
it. At a Sabbath morning service, early in the present year, when the
invitation was given by the preacher to those who had been prepared for
Christian baptism, to come forward for that rite, she was the first to
leave her seat, and come quietly forward, and kneel down with the rest,
quite unexpectedly to the preacher, who was not aware that such was her
intention. Eleven new converts were received in all that Sunday and the
previous one.

The work of the Mission during those earliest years had to be done amidst
many drawbacks, but these I need not do more than mention, as I have
already said that I do not believe in calling attention to the personal
difficulties of the missionary, but rather to his work.

In addition to the feeling of unrest, and the danger of tumult throughout
the country, and especially in Mandalay, the focus of all political
influences, there was always the climate, with its enervating heat, to
contend with. For two months of the year more especially, the dazzling
glare and fierce heat of the sun, the parching drought, and the hot
winds, are very exhausting, and render it very desirable for Europeans
to take a holiday, and get away to the hills, a little time, for change
of climate; but no such thing was possible in Upper Burma. There are,
it is true, mountains up to five and six thousand feet elevation, where
the climate is delightfully cool, but they are out of reach, for want of
railways and roads, and no one knows yet where the proper health resorts
of the future will be. It requires years of experience to know which of
the mountain districts are free from the deadly fever malaria of the
jungle, and which are not; consequently there was no chance of a change
of climate.

Besides this, we cannot undertake pioneer work in a new country, where
there has not been the least attempt at sanitary arrangements, without
serious risk to life and health. The other missions have already their
roll of the dead and the disabled in Upper Burma, and it is considerable
in proportion to the number of the workers. The smallpox epidemic,
inevitable in a country up to that time without vaccination, attacked
two of our number, and one of them was a very serious case, but by God’s
preserving mercy they escaped; and typhoid fever, probably the result of
an impure water supply, came in its turn, and two others of our little
company—one of them the Rev. T. W. Thomas, a new missionary, who had but
just arrived—were brought nigh to the gates of death. These, with the
ordinary diseases of the country, such as fever and dysentery, befell us,
but a merciful Providence brought us all through, and no one has been
called away or permanently disabled.




CHAPTER XVIII.

_SEEKING THE LOST._


One peculiar and sadly interesting feature of mission work in a new
country is the duty of seeking the lost. Whenever a new country is
opened, it not only offers a sphere for steady young men seeking one,
but it always attracts also many adventurers, wanderers and prodigals
from the more settled communities, and they come in considerable numbers.
The annexation of Upper Burma was a case of this kind, and the hope of
employment brought over persons, some of whom were to be found serving in
positions very different from what they or their friends ever expected
them to occupy. I remember one day, whilst visiting Kyaukse on mission
business, meeting casually a man of this kind. I heard there was an
Englishman lying ill in a certain rest-house. I found the man all alone
and very ill, suffering apparently from cholera, which was then very
prevalent. He was quite deserted and destitute, unable to attend to
himself, and in a very neglected condition. The building was the usual
Burmese _zayat_, built of teak, without any furniture whatever, nothing
but the man’s mattress and pillow spread on the floor. I sent for the
Government apothecary, and in the meantime got him some chicken broth
made, for he had no food, sponged him, and made him as comfortable as I
could. He told me something of his history. He was an Englishman, and
had been brought up respectably, and was a near relation of a minister
of the Gospel in England. He was a ne’er-do-weel, and had been in many
employments in different parts of the world; at one time at sea in a
whaling ship, and at that time driving a locomotive engine, with ballast
trains, on the new Mandalay railway, then under construction. His
failing, and the cause of all his misery and degradation, was drink. The
apothecary gave him medicine, and he recovered, and seemed very grateful
to me for the attentions I had shown him. He admitted his faults very
candidly, and we had, before I left the next day, a long and serious
talk, with prayer. I saw him once afterwards at our service on a Sunday
evening in Mandalay, and he seemed altogether brighter and better.
Shortly afterwards he left the neighbourhood, stating he wished to break
off from his bad companions and start life anew, and I saw him no more.

Another was a very different case. A Brahmin young man was missing from a
highly respectable native family in Negapatam. He was a former pupil in
our high school there, and had left home in consequence of some dispute
with his friends, and was supposed to have come to Mandalay, in search
of employment. I did not hear of any lapse of character or misconduct of
any kind, but with Brahmins, the mere leaving home and crossing the sea
amounts to such a breach of caste, and contamination with others, as to
be worse in their eyes than many a deadly sin, and they weep for such a
one as over a prodigal. I inquired for him in the public offices where he
was likely to be found, but I could find no trace of him.

I received from time to time a number of letters from a young woman
belonging to the Eurasian community in Ceylon, asking in great distress
for news of her husband, whom she had not seen for seven years. It was
a sad story, and the poor woman seemed almost to have lost her senses
through grief. Differences had arisen between her husband and his
relatives, after the marriage, and he had left home and gone to India,
and afterwards to Burma, and had given way to drink. I found traces of
him. The missionary of the Methodist Episcopal Church in Rangoon had
known him as one of the intemperate characters loafing about the town,
whom he had often tried to help, and raise out of the gutter. At last he
had suddenly lost sight of him, and could not tell me what had become
of him. Through the Superintendent of Police in Rangoon I found what
appeared to be the last trace of this unfortunate man. The police records
stated that a man, answering to his description, was found drowned one
morning, in the lake near Rangoon, and he was supposed to have wandered
there, either whilst helpless in liquor, or with the intention of ending
his unhappy career. Which it was there was no evidence to show. It was
never fully proved that this was the same man, but as he was nowhere
to be found, it seemed very probable that it was he, and the poor soul
had to content herself, as best she could, with this sad and uncertain
information.

A widow of the Eurasian community, whom I had been acquainted with during
my residence in Ceylon, years before, wrote to ask if I could hear any
tidings of her younger son, who at the time I knew him was a schoolboy,
but by that time a young man. He had left home to seek employment, and
had learnt the business of a mechanic, but, like too many, had ceased to
write to his mother, who, of course, in the absence of any knowledge of
him, feared the worst. What a cruel thing to leave a widowed mother in
ignorance of his whereabouts! I made all possible inquiries, but with no
result. He had not come to Mandalay.

Another very sad case was that of a young Englishman in Mandalay,
in Government service, and in a respectable position. Disappointed
apparently at not getting promotion as rapidly as he had hoped, late one
night he committed suicide by drowning himself. Morally he had drifted
far away from the teachings of home and childhood, and he had formally
renounced the Christian religion, declared himself a Buddhist, and had
even left instructions in his will, that in the event of his death he
should be interred as a Buddhist. Though no one appears to have suspected
it before the sad event, it was, after his death, the opinion of many who
knew him, that his reason must have lost its balance. There was evidence
of great deliberation in the carrying out of the deed. His duties in
the public service had occupied him until a late hour, and had all been
performed in his usual careful manner. He had then dismissed his native
attendant and gone on to a large pool of water, and had taken care to
make his body sink and ensure his death. I received a letter from his
mother in England, written after the sad intelligence reached her,
asking for further information, and in great trouble. From this letter
it appeared that he had, in his youth, been well and religiously brought
up, but long residence abroad had blunted those early impressions. Our
countrymen abroad need more than all the attention we can give them,
and we often wish we could do more. But the working hours of the day
are limited; many duties press upon us, and the Europeans are widely
scattered over all the country, and it is impossible to reach them all.

One day I received a letter from a respectable Eurasian gentleman, a
Christian man in Calcutta, requesting me to seek his son, a young man of
twenty-two. He seemed in great trouble about him, and stated that his son
had “rejected a life provision, with every comfort of home and family.”
This was not the only trouble in the family. His elder brother, who had
been in Burma also, and had prospered in money matters, had fallen a
victim to drink, and had died by his own act, having, under the influence
of liquor, thrown himself overboard from a steamer, whilst on the way
from Rangoon to Calcutta. The father seemed dreadfully crushed at the
thought of the unfortunate end of the elder brother, and the prodigal
career of the younger, and wrote to ask if I could learn any tidings of
him. After some searching, I found him in, I think, the filthiest house
I ever stepped inside of, and consorting with some low Burmans. He was
working at his trade pretty regularly, and was earning good wages; but he
was so hemmed in by his bad habits, and bad companions, and he seemed to
be of such an easy, yielding nature, and so infirm of purpose, that it
seemed very difficult, if not impossible, to do anything to help him. As
I visited him repeatedly, he expressed from time to time a feeble desire
to do better; but he admitted to me that the domestic ties he had formed
in Mandalay prevented his leaving the place, and quitting the place was
the only chance he could see of getting into a better way of life. It was
the usual case—a Burmese wife, and yet not a wife.

And here I must utter a strong protest against those illicit connections
which so many of our countrymen, of almost every degree, form in Burma.
It seems to many of them that because the marriage bond amongst the
Burmans themselves is lax, and more or less of the nature of a temporary
arrangement, and because the standard of social morality is low, it gives
them the licence to make it still lower, and the union still looser,
by forming still more temporary companionships with Burmese women. In
the case of the Englishman I say _still looser_, for there is this
difference between the Burman and the Englishman—that in the former case
it is to all intents and purposes a marriage, and is not unlikely to
prove lifelong, though it may terminate earlier, whereas the Englishman
would scornfully refuse the title of wife for his native companion, or
“housekeeper,” as he is pleased sometimes to call her, and he never
intends the union to be anything but temporary. It is vain therefore to
defend this practice from the standpoint of Burmese custom. It is mere
concubinage, and in the name of the Christian religion, to which they
nominally belong, I protest that no man has the right to inflict such a
degrading position upon the mother of his children.

As regards the children of such unions, the result is still more cruel.
They find themselves in a most invidious position. Of mixed descent,
they belong neither to the English nor the Burmese race, and they suffer
serious disadvantages accordingly. Moreover, the English are never
permanently resident in Burma, and when the father is tired of the girl,
his companion, or when his work, or his official duty, calls him to
leave and go to a distant station, or when he goes “home” on furlough,
or retires altogether from Burma, or when he marries an English wife in
proper legal form, it ends in his paying off the mother and the children,
if indeed he prove sufficiently honourable to do that. If she takes all
this with a light heart, as she probably may, Burman-like, that does not
lessen the guilt and the cruelty involved in such base desertion of his
own helpless offspring. That such children are very often left in this
way by their fathers, and that they become a charge on missionary bodies
for their education, out of sheer pity for their English descent, and
that these individuals often go eventually to swell the community of
“Poor Whites,” a class very difficult to provide for—all these are facts
too well known in Burma, and in India, to be disputed. These facts should
make the young Englishman pause before he follows this evil but prevalent
example, surrenders himself to his appetites, and foolishly surrounds
himself with ties which are degrading and unworthy, and which he cannot
fairly justify or defend, and which he would never think of acknowledging
to his mother and sisters “at home.” These considerations ought to make
him consider whether he had not better, by early frugality, save his
funds, so that he may the sooner be in a position to woo and provide for
a wife of his own nation and people, who can be a true companion for him.
This evil is one of considerable dimensions in Burma, and holding up
social evils to the light of day is one means of seeking their removal.

One day I received a letter from a godly man in Ireland, who wrote asking
me to go and see his son, a sergeant in the regiment then stationed in
Mandalay. He was under an assumed name, a thing not unusual in the army.
His father had not heard from him for ten years, but had just received a
letter. It was a sad case—the old story—formerly in a very good position
in the Excise in Ireland; drink his ruin. He lost his position, and
finding himself at length in distress, enlisted. Being well educated
he was soon promoted, but again and again got into trouble through
drinking. This went on for years, until at last by sheer desperate effort
he managed to pull himself together, feeling sure that if he went on
much longer at the rate he was going, he would soon be in his grave. He
admitted to me that though he had not, when I saw him, tasted liquor
for over a year, the craving that came upon him sometimes was almost
insupportable. I urged him to seek the converting grace of God, and
get Divine help, which alone could keep straight one in his dangerous
position, but he could not see it. I sat with him over an hour that
afternoon, and he wept freely; we wept together as we talked about his
home, his father, and the days of childhood and innocence, and as he
recounted to me the story of his life. Soldiers and sailors are amongst
the most candid and approachable of men with the chaplain, and I never
find the least difficulty in getting at their hearts. But there was a
peculiar difficulty in his case in another respect. He believed in his
father, and there was much tenderness in his mind with regard to sacred
things, but he seemed to be utterly sceptical as to Divine grace ever
reaching _him_; and it was only with the utmost difficulty that I could
get him to kneel in prayer. There seemed to be some hindrance that I
could not remove. He came by invitation to my house, and spent an evening
with us, but with a like result, and he steadily refrained from attending
any of our services. Very shortly after I became acquainted with him,
his regiment left for England, and I saw him no more. Let us hope that
the scenes of home life once more, and other kindred influences, led to
the completion of that work of grace and reformation, the beginning of
which was evidenced by his long abstinence from liquor, his writing once
more to his father, and the evident feeling he manifested when conversing
about home and sacred things.

Where the habit of drinking has become confirmed it is often very
difficult to effect a radical cure; consequently looking after such
cases as I am describing, where the drink appetite and other gross sins
have complicated the situation, is never so hopeful and encouraging.
Nevertheless we have no reason to lose hope of any; and cases occur
sometimes of the complete reformation of persons who have sunk very
low indeed, and long seemed hopeless. In this connection I should like
to acknowledge the very satisfactory results that have attended the
universal establishment, throughout the British Army in our Indian
Empire, of that society known as the Army Temperance Association. This
society owes its origin to the efforts of a Baptist missionary in India,
the Rev. Gelson Gregson, who started the movement some few years ago. Its
working is similar to other temperance organisations, with the exception
that it is purposely and specially adapted to the idiosyncrasies and the
peculiar circumstances of Thomas Atkins in a tropical climate, far away
from “home,” and with much spare time on his hands. The great reason why
it flourishes is that it really offers counter attractions, such as a
soldier can appreciate, to the canteen as a place of resort, with its
hilarity and good fellowship, and without any temptation to intoxication.

Chief among these attractions is _a room set apart for the purpose_,
where the members of the Army Temperance Association can resort when
off duty; a small concession, one would have thought, that might long
ago have been less grudgingly and more frequently made to temperance,
but really a great matter to the soldier. This, with the necessary
refreshment bar for the sale of food, tea and cooling drinks, with a few
games to occupy their spare time, and a supply of newspapers and books,
forms a basis. The organisation itself is fitted to meet the case of
soldiers. A small monthly fee is paid for membership; they elect their
own officials from amongst themselves, there is a periodical published by
the Secretary at headquarters as the organ of the association, there is a
bestowal of medals and decorations, in tangible recognition of abstinence
on the part of members, for given lengths of time, and the surplus funds
are expended in little entertainments such as they like. It is a matter
of much gratification to us in the Burma mission, that the chaplain
selected by the military authorities at present, to fill the post of
Secretary of the Army Temperance Association, is our former comrade and
colleague, the Rev. J. H. Bateson, who in 1887-8 was with us as Wesleyan
Chaplain to the Upper Burma Field Force, and we heartily wish him success
in the work for which he is so well fitted.

It is a matter of great thankfulness that the Army Temperance Association
is not only fully recognised in our Indian army, but that it is a
standing order that a branch of it has to be maintained in every regiment
and battery. Joining is optional on the part of the men. This wise course
has been amply justified by the results. Sixteen thousand out of a total
of nearly seventy thousand men are enrolled. It is now found that in
proportion as the Army Temperance Association flourishes, both crime and
sickness in the army diminish; and so far from soldiers needing liquor to
sustain them, they are found far better without it, both in cantonments
and in the field. In fact, it is calculated that every five thousand
men in the association means a battalion of men less in prison and in
hospital, and fit for duty. The wonder is not that such should be found
to be the case, but that it should have taken so many years to find it
out. In the mission we took our stand, of course, on the side of total
abstinence, and embraced every opportunity of advocating this movement,
in military and civil life, both amongst men and amongst women.

We met from time to time with cases of genuine conversion that gave us
great joy. Our Sunday evening English service was always followed by an
after meeting for prayer and exhortation, and made an opportunity, for
any who wished to lead a new life, to give their hearts to the Saviour.
Again and again it was our delight to guide those who were seeking to
do so, at first in Buddhist monasteries, and pagodas, and anywhere that
we could find for the meetings, often with images of Gautama, and other
accessories of Buddhist worship around, and later on in our own mission
school-chapel. I remember one Sunday evening in particular, the Word
came home to many hearts, and that evening, and in the course of the
week, I had the privilege of close conversation with several, and some
of our Christian members spoke with others who had been awakened by the
influence of the Spirit. Amongst the rest I had a request, through a
soldier, to the effect that Corporal S. would like to talk with me. I
went and met him, and conversed for half an hour in the barrack yard
answering his question, “What must I do to be saved?” The circumstances
of his awakening were peculiar. A certain passage of Scripture had
followed him wherever he had gone. The last Sunday, just before sailing
for India, his mother had requested him to go with her to the service,
and that had been the text. At Malta he had heard another sermon from the
same text. The first time he attended service after he landed in India
it had been the same. And a fourth time had he heard it preached from
at Shwebo in Upper Burma. This had naturally produced a considerable
impression on his mind, which the sermon of the previous Sunday evening
had developed into decision to serve the Lord. With a little instruction
and prayer he was soon hopefully converted, and happy in the Lord.

It is sometimes urged, as an objection against earnest efforts for the
conversion of sinners, that the results attending such efforts are not
always abiding; but surely no objection could be more illogical or more
ungenerous. If it applies at all, it applies with equal force against
any and every attempt to save men. It may just as well be alleged
against the most formal and perfunctory of ministrations as against the
more direct and strenuous efforts to pluck men out of the fire. The
proper logical outcome of that objection is, “Do nothing at all.” We
might just as well do nothing as make the Gospel a mere “light to sink
by.” A chaplain amongst soldiers must often feel a painful sense of
disappointment at some results of his work, which are evanescent. The
life of the barrack-room necessarily produces, especially in India, such
an artificial condition of things, and involves such a departure from the
Divine ordinance, which is _the family_, that it must needs bring with it
special trials and stress of temptation to any of the dwellers there who
desire to lead a godly life. Hence every chaplain has his disappointments
over those who grow weary in well-doing. And yet, on the other hand, such
is the principle of compensation running through the kingdom of grace,
that although barrack-room discipline is bad for the weak Christian, it
strengthens the man of determination, and I question whether there are to
be found anywhere triumphs of saving grace more marvellous than we find
in the army, or more touching examples of humble, sincere and consistent
piety.

We had in the battery of Royal Artillery stationed in Mandalay a man
whose career had been a peculiarly rough one, but who is now a very
bright Christian. He had led a wild life. He was a blacksmith by trade,
and, from his youth up, had been in the habit of spending all he possibly
could in beer, and, as is usually the case, the beer often made a mere
brute and vagabond of him. He first enlisted in a cavalry regiment, from
which, after being often in trouble, he deserted. For a time he got work,
but he still betook himself to the beer, and the beer made him talk,
and let out his former connection with the army, so that he frequently
had to disappear hurriedly, lest he should be arrested as a deserter.
Finding himself in want, he enlisted again, this time in the Royal
Engineers. From this corps he received his discharge in consequence of an
illness. Recovering, and entering once more on a course of dissipation,
he enlisted a third time, in the Royal Artillery. The Jubilee year gave
him the opportunity to confess his former desertion, and to secure his
share in the general pardon, extended by the Queen to all such cases
that year; and it was not long before the King of kings granted him His
pardon also. Whilst stationed at Woolwich, he happened one evening, when
feeling extremely dejected, to enter the Soldiers’ Home. The Wesleyan
chaplain met him there, spoke to him kindly, and invited him to a
meeting. He went. It was a fellowship meeting. He heard a number of his
comrades speak, but so dark was his mind in reference to religion, that
he could not understand them in the least. However, he gathered that
they possessed some source of comfort and joy within, of which he knew
nothing. He followed it up, became truly converted, and whilst with us
in Mandalay lived a most exemplary life, and exerted a very gracious
influence amongst his comrades. Religion had quickened, as it often does,
that once darkened and besotted nature; and I have seldom met with a
better example of the transforming, elevating power of the Gospel, the
power to keep and sanctify, as well as save.

Another very satisfactory instance of true conversion, mainly owing to
impressions produced at the parade services, several Sunday mornings in
succession, was that of a pay-sergeant in the regiment then stationed in
Mandalay, a married man living with his wife and family in the married
quarters, a steady, quiet Scotchman, always well disposed, and of
strictly moral life. Parade services are not always thought to be very
good opportunities for getting at the hearts of soldiers, seeing that
they are marched there by compulsion, not always in the best mood, and
with their arms and accoutrements (in India), which is a different thing
from going to a voluntary service off parade. But does not this fact
challenge, as it were, the chaplain to give them of his brightest and
best? It must, before all, be very short, or he will ruin everything,
and send them away worse than they came; something short, lively and
heart-stirring, full of Christ, full of apt illustration, and full of
sympathy with souls, so that he may capture these soldier lads in spite
of themselves. Well, it was at these parade services that Sergeant C.
felt his mind awakened to new views of truth and duty and Christian
privilege. Being aroused about the matter he attended also the evening
services, and the devotional meetings on the week-nights, and soon got
the light he required, and found himself a new man in Christ Jesus. Well
conducted and steady as he had been before, his conversion nevertheless
made a great difference to him, giving clearness and brightness to his
religious character, and kindling in him a new zeal for the conversion of
others.

We found drink to be a fearful curse, not only amongst the English
residents, but amongst the natives also. I had a servant, a native of
India. He was a great gambler, and very lazy, dishonest and troublesome
altogether. Bad as he was, we bore with him over two years, fearing that
if we discharged him we might have to put up with somebody worse. Just
before we left Burma we dismissed him, because he had sent away his wife
and taken up with another. Since coming to England, I learn that this
man, in a fit of drunkenness, murdered this woman, with circumstances of
unusual atrocity, and that he had to suffer the extreme penalty of the
law.

But this drink monster is no respecter of persons, and makes no
distinction of race, sweeping down all before it without any
discrimination. An English soldier in Mandalay, who had been an abstainer
for a considerable period, suddenly took to liquor again one day, and got
drunk. That evening he took out his rifle, put in a cartridge, walked
down out of the bungalow, and took the direction that the seven devils
within him pointed out. This happened to be towards the sergeants’ mess,
a separate building a stone’s-throw away. That evening, a party of
sergeants were enjoying a festive gathering, in honour of the seventeenth
anniversary of the enlistment of one of their number. His health had just
been proposed, and he stood up to reply, when at that very moment the
poor crazed drunkard outside fired, and shot the sergeant dead. There had
been no provocation, and no reason could be assigned for the rash act.
It was merely “the drink.” In the distant future, when the temperance
reform shall have won its way, and the customs of English society shall
have undergone a great change, people will greatly wonder that their
forefathers took so long to discover that liquor was their enemy, and not
their friend.

Another example, and I bring these reminiscences to a close. It is the
case of a soldier, who formerly belonged to a cavalry regiment, stationed
at the time I speak of at one of the principal military stations in the
south of India. He had plunged into drinking and vice, until at last he
was told by the doctor that he had gone as far as his constitution would
allow him, and that if he went any further it would be the end of him.
This weighed upon his mind, and a deep sense of his sinfulness and a
desire for better things resulted. He felt he needed Divine help, and he
thought he had better begin again to pray, a thing he had long ceased to
do. But how to begin in a barrack-room, where many pairs of eyes would
see him, and misunderstand, and ridicule him? Well, he would wait until
all was quiet, and then kneel down by his cot and pray. He waited, but
as he was musing the fire kindled, and when he did begin to pray, so
urgent was his pleading with God for mercy, that his voice rang through
the barrack-room, and all his comrades were aroused by it. They thought
he was mad. He was removed to the guard-room, and put under restraint.
There, in the quietude of that solitary place, he found pardon, and his
soul was filled with peace. Next day the medical officer saw him; he
could not quite make out the case, but adopted the safe course of keeping
him still under restraint. He told the doctor what it was that had caused
the trouble of his mind, and how he had gained deliverance, adding that
if they had said he was mad before, it would have been quite true, but
that now he had come to his right mind. This explanation only induced
the man of science dubiously to elevate his eyebrows. It was a kind of
case he was not familiar with. Though perfectly sane, and calm and happy,
he was kept under restraint for a month, and he was accustomed to say
that that month, almost entirely alone with God and his Bible, was the
happiest period of his life.

That work of grace, so strangely begun, was thorough and abiding. It
was well known in the station, and produced a great impression for
good, supported as it was by his subsequent consistent conduct. It
was years after his conversion that I knew him intimately in Burma as
a non-commissioned officer, serving in an important and responsible
military position, for which he had been specially selected; and I knew
him for several years as a consistent Christian, whose firm example—and
happy, cheerful character made him a blessing to others, and who was
never backward in quietly and judiciously speaking for the Master.




CHAPTER XIX.

_A JUNGLE JOURNEY._


We had a great desire in the mission to pay a visit to the Chin tribes on
the western frontier, with the view of ascertaining their locality and
circumstances. Consequently, when the cool season arrived, the usual time
of year for tours, I started with my brother missionary, Mr. Bestall,
then stationed at Pakokku, for a journey to the Chin country. The Chins,
as explained in Chapter X., are not Buddhists, but worshippers of spirits
or demons, and are on that account more barbarous, and, contradictory as
it may seem to say so, more ready of access than the Buddhistic races, to
Christian mission effort.

We left Pakokku at 4 A.M. one morning in November, mounted on two lively
Burmese ponies, with a cart drawn by a pair of bullocks for our things.
In travelling through the jungle you need to take almost everything
you require; so that when the sugar, and salt, and tea, and bread, and
butter, and tins of meat (in case the gun brings down nothing), and
soap, and candles, and rice, and curry, and frying-pan, and kettle, and
crockery, and a few other simple necessaries, not omitting medicines,
are packed up in a box, and the pillows and rugs for the night rolled up
in a mat, and a change or two of clothes put in a portmanteau, and a few
Gospel portions and tracts included, to distribute in the villages as we
pass along, you find you require a cart to carry them. As the cart can
only travel, on an average, about two miles an hour, it requires a long
day to do twenty miles. There is no advantage in going ahead of the cart,
you only have to wait at the end of the stage, and it is more enjoyable
to spend the time in leisurely travelling. In this way these jungle
journeys, though the travelling is rough and often fatiguing, are very
serviceable for the sake of the change of air and scene, and the free
out-door exercise they afford.

We managed to make a stage of six miles before it was daylight, and
pushed on the next stage of fifteen miles farther without stopping.
There we halted at one of the establishments constructed at every stage
along this route, to accommodate troops and convoys, on the march to the
military and police stations on the frontier. It consisted of long rows
of temporary bamboo barracks, and a bamboo shed for the officers. There
was a Burmese police guard close by. How regularly and irreproachably
that Burman constable shouldered his rifle, and did his “sentry go,”
_while we were looking on_! Here we halted for our midday meal and a
short rest. It is wonderful with what dexterity your native servant,
availing himself of almost no facilities for cooking, can produce you
a savoury breakfast on the march. Three stones or bricks to support
the kettle, and the same for the frying-pan, are all he requires for a
fireplace, and a few sticks and bits of bamboo out of the jungle are
enough for a fire. In the afternoon we did another twelve miles, making
thirty-three miles that day, which was rather more than the cartman
would have driven his bullocks, if it had not been that the next day was
Sunday, the day of rest. The weather was lovely, being the best time of
the year for a journey. It was not much hotter in the day than a warm
summer day in England; the nights and mornings were chilly.

At Pyinchaung we halted on the Saturday night, again putting up in the
temporary military lines. The route we had taken was not a road, as we
understand roads in England, but, strictly speaking, more of a track,
fairly passable in dry weather for carts, but almost impracticable after
heavy rains. Good metalled roads are a luxury we have not seen much of
as yet in Upper Burma, but we shall get them in course of time. On the
Sunday we rested, and spent some time amongst the villagers, distributing
tracts and preaching. Here we had the misfortune to lose our two ponies.
Mr. Bestall, pitying them, that there was so little grass to eat in the
rest-house enclosure, opened his kind heart, and the gate at the same
time, and let them out to graze, giving them in charge to the cartman to
look after. He followed them for awhile, and then, native-like, came back
without them. We went in search of them, but never saw them again that
journey. They strayed for many miles, and it was a month before they were
brought back. It speaks well for the hold the English now have on the
country, and the great diminution of crime, that search was made in all
the district round, and they were returned by the police, as we felt sure
they would be. We had to borrow for the rest of the way.

An eloquent reminder of the troublous times we had then barely passed
through, was the little police fort close by the rest-house, constructed
on the top of a ruined pagoda, where there was a view of the country for
some distance round. During the first three or four years of British rule
places like this had to be selected wherever practicable, and made strong
enough to stand a rush by dacoits, and a careful watch had to be kept.
The little bamboo house was perched right on the top of the steep mound
of ruined brickwork, a wall breast high was erected round it, and with
a few resolute men, well armed, inside, it would not have been easy to
take. The rest-house at Pyinchaung, looking westward, overlooked a most
lovely valley of great extent and fertility, through which we had now to
pass. This valley looks as if it might have been at one time the bed of
a mighty river, but the stream is now contracted to a very narrow span,
and the alluvial soil of this rich valley is a veritable land of plenty.
I never saw a region more lovely with “the fairer forms that cultivation
glories in” than the Yaw valley then appeared. Whilst crossing this great
valley we rode through fields of maize, and another tall grain, a kind
of millet, far above our heads, with rice fields here and there, and
abundance of pumpkins, beans and other vegetables, the ponies snatching
an occasional bite at the sweet juicy stems and leaves of the millet,
which they are so fond of. Carts in great numbers passed us, drawn by
well-fed, plump oxen, and mostly laden with the leaves which envelop the
maize cobs, all laid straight and packed neatly in bundles. The maize
crop had nearly all been reaped, and these leaves of the Yaw valley
maize, not the grain itself, form the most valuable product of the crop,
and are largely sold all over Burma for the purpose of enveloping Burmese
cigars.

The people of this district all looked fat and well fed. There was
abundance of cattle, and the inhabitants of that region seemed to want
for nothing in a material point of view. Fifteen miles from Pyinchaung
we reached Pauk, a small Burmese town, the headquarters of the township
officer, a police officer, and a lieutenant in charge of a detachment
of Madras troops. They were all very young Englishmen, two of them
apparently not over twenty-five, and it might have seemed odd at first
sight to see such young men in such responsible positions. But suddenly
having to find a sufficient staff of officials, to rule over a country as
large as France, has involved engaging the services of many young men,
for they must enter upon their duties young to be properly trained for
the work; and it is a notable fact that the great work of pacifying and
restoring to order Upper Burma has been chiefly the work of very young
men. The civil officer is a magistrate, and has to try such cases as
are within his jurisdiction, to collect the revenue through his native
subordinates, to keep his eye on everything in general, and to keep the
Deputy Commissioner of the district informed of all that is going on, to
initiate whatever is needful for the well-being of the community, and
to act the part of a father to the people of his township, which is as
large, though not so populous, as an English county. The police inspector
is responsible for the maintenance of order, and the pursuit and arrest
of criminals; and the military may at any time be called out to take the
field, and try conclusions with some dacoit band that has gathered in
force. As far as I could judge they all seemed very fit for the work they
had to do.

Only a year or so before, this township of Pauk was in an exceedingly
disturbed state, by reason of dacoit bands; and if things had not greatly
improved, we could never have travelled unprotected through it as we did.
It is to the credit of these young men, and the troops and police under
them, that things are so peaceable now. We saw at Pauk the same abundant
evidences of prosperity and improvement, that are visible everywhere
throughout the country, not only in the erection of a new court house and
public Government office, and many private houses, but still more in the
great improvements made about the town, in the improvement of the roads,
and most of all in the construction of a new bazaar, which the township
officer showed us through with pardonable pride, and in which a great
deal of business was going on.

Having stayed in Pauk the night, we were off the next morning early,
forded the river, travelled a stage, and rested for our midday meal in
a monastery. This is no uncommon thing in Burma; we had occasion to do
so several times on this journey. There is hardly a village without its
monastery, one or more, always the best building in the place, and kept
very clean; and it generally happens, as in this case, that there are
some vacant buildings used as rest-houses by chance travellers. We always
found the monks affable and pleasant to meet, quite chatty, with a kind
of friendly familiarity entering at once into conversation, and evidently
not having the slightest objection to seeing us about the premises. We,
on our part, reciprocated these advances, and made things pleasant all
round.

Thus we travelled on from day to day, as fast as our bullocks could make
the journey, which was very slowly indeed. As we could gain nothing by
going ahead of our cart, we were obliged to spend the spare time as best
we could. My companion, having a gun, and being a good shot, managed to
get something every day, which, in the entire absence of the butcher’s
shop, was very acceptable for the larder. We had either a hare, wild
pigeons, jungle fowl, partridges, or something. Game is abundant on the
route, and in the jungle you have no fear of encroaching on anybody’s
preserves.

I suppose there are few places in the world now, however remote, where
an Englishman is not constantly meeting with some wandering specimens
of his countrymen; and even in the wildest recesses of the jungles of
Upper Burma, you are liable to the discovery that the genus Englishman
includes the species gentleman and the species snob. We had a curious
illustration of this. Arriving one evening, long after dark, about eight
o’clock, at a roadside rest-house, built by the Public Works Department
for the common use of English travellers, we found a gentleman whom I
will call Captain X. He was travelling in charge of a large military
convoy of elephants, ponies and other baggage animals, carrying up
supplies to one of the distant military stations in the Chin country. He
and a junior companion were in possession of the comfortable, spacious,
three-roomed bamboo rest-house, where there would have been ample
accommodation for us as well, with our scanty travelling kit, in the
third room, which they were not using; and they had really no more right
to monopolise the whole than we had. However, they were in possession;
and on our presenting ourselves at the door, Captain X. never so much
as asked us to step inside, never attempted even to ascertain who we
were, or to enter at all into conversation with us, but simply directed
our attention to a dirty, shabby bamboo shed at the lower part of the
compound, built for natives, and at that moment quite full of Burman
coolies, who, he cheerfully assured us, would readily “nip out” and
make room for us, if we asked them. Some people’s idea of the purpose
of other people seems to be that they were meant by Providence to “nip
out” and make way for them! Gathering from his manner that he did not
mean us to have the use of the vacant room at the rest-house, or to
show the slightest courtesy in any way, we betook ourselves to the said
outbuilding. The courteous Burmans squeezed themselves into smaller
space, and left us enough room to spread our rugs on the bamboo floor,
and we managed to put up for the night. I am glad to say that this kind
of discourtesy is very uncommon indeed abroad. In all my experience of
many years in Ceylon and Burma, I have never met with such scant civility
from a fellow-traveller in the jungle, but always something more in
accordance with the circumstances.

A striking contrast to this was the gentlemanly conduct of Lieutenant
T., whom we happened to meet in a similar way at a rest-house on the
return journey. He was in possession, too, before we arrived, and though
that rest-house only consisted of one room, which he was occupying, he
most kindly pressed us to share it with him. This, however, we would
not do, but decided to occupy a zayat which we found vacant close by.
We entered into conversation, and shortly after, when we took leave of
him for the night, we found that, finding our cart had not arrived, and
that our supper would have been long delayed, he had sent his servant
boy round with enough supper for both of us, and a candle by the light
of which to eat it! Lieutenant T. is a brave man, and has made quite a
name in connection with the rough military and civil work of the last
few years, amongst the tribes of the western frontier. He has been, as
we were elsewhere informed, in thirteen engagements; and he was at that
time returning to his distant appointment on the hills, from an event
which must have been to him, as a soldier, the proudest moment of his
life, when the general decorated him, in the presence of all the troops
of the station assembled on parade, with the Distinguished Service Order.
It was currently reported by his brother-officers that it would have been
the Victoria Cross, had he not been in command of the detachment on the
special occasion, and as the writer of the despatch, he chivalrously gave
the praise to another.

I could not but observe this, as another instance, showing that
true bravery is usually associated with true modesty, and all other
gentlemanly qualities.

We now began to make our way over a mountainous ridge, along which an
earthen road had been cut out, but not gravelled, and many a rustic
bridge erected over the torrents that crossed the track, by the British,
about a year before, on purpose for the Chin Expedition, and for
subsequent traffic. Some £35,000 we were told had been spent upon it.
Some thousands of coolies were brought over from India, and the thing
was done without delay. The expedition would have been almost impossible
without a road. This serves to give the reader a glimpse of what it means
to undertake the pacification and administration of a new country of
abundant resources, but without means of communication, and with much
raiding and dacoity going on. A road, or still better a railway, always
means increased traffic and commerce, better markets for produce, and
better means of getting about, and is itself, therefore, a pacifier and
civiliser of no mean account; and it soon tends, under British law and
insistence on good behaviour, to demonstrate that honesty is the best
policy. Good government should always make it pay better to lead an
honest, industrious, orderly life, than to pursue a career of robbery and
violence—should, in fact, make it hard to do wrong and easy to do right.

This part of our journey was through a hilly and picturesque country,
consisting almost entirely of thick natural forest, with many teak and
other fine timber trees, and bamboo jungle everywhere. At Thileng we were
ninety-eight miles from Pakokku, and close to the Chin Hills. We had
here to leave the road, and our cart could go no farther with us, as the
hills are very precipitous, and there is only a jungle path. We therefore
reduced our baggage to the lowest possible limits of sheer necessity, and
had our few things carried the remainder of the journey by a couple of
coolies.

We observed that the village of Thileng had some attempts at protection
against the Chin raids. At each of the four ends of the village, where
the two main roads, placed at right angles, lead out to the jungle, there
are log huts erected, where a police guard can be sheltered against
their arrows and spears, and the gates are shut at night. The remaining
protection consists of a broad hedge of dead thorns heaped all round the
village. At this and several villages in the vicinity sad tales were
told us of Chin raids, in which Burmans were taken captive, and some
of them detained amongst the Chins for many years. The various British
expeditions sent up to the Chin tribes, with a view of reducing them to
order, have released from time to time a great many of these unfortunate
people, and the practice will soon come to an end, if it has not already
ceased. This is one example of the ways in which English rule is a great
blessing to a country like Burma, in removing such an intolerable burden
as this constant dread of these murderous and disastrous raids, and
the subsequent miseries of the unfortunate captives. The distance from
Thileng to Pinloak, the nearest Chin village, is about sixteen miles,
and over as rugged and difficult a path as ever I travelled. About noon
we halted, and had our lunch at the bottom of a very lovely gorge, by the
side of an icy-cold stream, just the picturesque kind of place that would
become a favourite with tourists in England.

At about two o’clock we approached the village, and we halted, under
cover of the tall grass, while our Burman guide went forward to announce
our approach. Presently they called to us to come forward, and we emerged
from the tall grass upon a clearing, on the steep hillside, of several
acres. The forest trees and undergrowth had been felled and burnt,
and crops of various kinds of grain, cultivated in a rough and ready
manner, and a few vegetables, were growing. The people received us in
a friendly way, and we went forward and rested in the nearest house,
which was of bamboo, something like the houses of the Burmans. We found
the Chins in many respects different from the Burmans—far more backward
in civilisation. In colour they are about the same complexion, a light
brown, but altogether dirty and unwashed. The men wear the merest rag of
a garment, the women wear a kind of tunic covering the body, but the legs
and thighs and feet are quite bare. The peculiar custom of tattooing the
faces of the women, described in Chapter X., gives them rather a hideous
appearance, and when seen in such a dress, with the face tattooed in
that fashion, and with a bamboo pipe stuck in their mouths, smoking, the
effect is not the most lady-like imaginable. Still it is only fair to say
that the women we saw, despite all these disadvantages, did not strike
us as looking particularly unwomanly. Some of the faces, both of the men
and women, were of rather a fine cast, notwithstanding their barbarous,
unkempt appearance; but the greater part of them wore that degraded
appearance which utter ignorance and the many hardships of a savage life
generally produce. As I have given many particulars about the manners and
customs of the Chins in a former chapter, I need not repeat it. We spent
the afternoon fraternising with them in their houses, making purchases
of some of their weapons and other articles, which they certainly did
not make the mistake of charging too little for, and witnessing their
wonderfully accurate shooting with the bow and arrow.

[Illustration: “THE WOMEN AND GIRLS OF THE CHIN TRIBE WEAR A KIND OF
TUNIC.”]

As evening drew on our Burmese guide advised us to camp out across the
river in preference to sleeping in the village. As the best native houses
in Burma are apt to harbour much vermin, and as the Chins never think of
such a thing as washing their bodies, it may be understood that we were
not unwilling to take that advice. Moreover, it was desirable to avoid
any complications that might lead to a breach of the peace, for with
barbarians it is sometimes a word and a blow, and the blow first. We
therefore crossed the river and prepared to camp out in the forest, under
a great clump of bamboos, spreading our mats on the sand, and kindling
a good fire, for it became very cold as the night advanced, and the dew
dropped from the trees almost like rain. Some of the Chins came over and
sat with us as we ate our supper, accepting a taste of each article, and
testifying their approval, especially of the jam. As one or two of them
could talk Burmese we were able to converse with them, and until late at
night they stayed listening round our camp fire, as we told them about
England and its greatness, and tried to explain, as well as we could make
them understand, some of the leading truths of Christianity.

I must not omit to state what it was in us that astonished them most of
all. After they had investigated the mystery of the gun, and had fired
off a cartridge, and had examined whatever else we had about us that
was curious, my companion suggested to me that, as I embodied in my own
person a good example of the dentist’s art, it might be well to let them
see what the English experts could do in supplementing deficiencies of
that nature. I thought it was a good suggestion; so calling their special
attention to what I was about to do, I quietly detached the upper set
of teeth and held it forth at arm’s length, full in the gaze of the
astonished barbarians, and then slipped it back again in a moment, and
showed them that I was able to eat with them just as well as they could
with theirs. We had expected them to be surprised at this exhibition,
but their astonishment exceeded our expectation. Up to that moment my
friend, as the proprietor of the gun, and the more affable and engaging
gentleman of the two, had been the chief centre of observation and
admiration, but after that he had to take the second place. They were
greatly amazed. Never had they seen such a thing before. They had no idea
it was possible to do it. To make a gun, or any other piece of mechanism,
or any manufactured article, was very likely within the power of a highly
civilised people. But to be able to detach and take out the whole upper
set of teeth, gums, palate and all (apparently), and then to slip them
in again, and enjoy the full and perfect use of them!—that far exceeded
any notions they had previously formed of what was possible, and they
evidently regarded this not as a piece of mechanism, but more in the
light of an utterly inexplicable, if not magical, accomplishment.

It is not amiss for barbarous people like these, who have been accustomed
to set all law and order at defiance, and raided upon Burmese territory
just as they liked, to have the opportunity of seeing for themselves some
marks of a superior civilisation. It may be expected to induce in them
a wholesome dread of the British power, and a more orderly and peaceful
mode of life.

They begged us to stay over the next day, stating that they wished to
bring their people from far and near to see this strange sight, but
the risk of fever, through sleeping out in the jungle, was too great
to justify us in remaining longer, and next day we left Pinloak, and
returned the way we came. And we live in hopes that, when the funds will
allow of it, the information we gleaned on this tour may be turned to
good account.




CHAPTER XX.

_THE HOME FOR LEPERS AT MANDALAY._


One of the painful sights which specially attracts the notice of the
European in Burma is the large number of lepers to be seen in all the
public places. As you walk along the streets you see them, sitting in the
dust, holding out their mutilated limbs, from which sometimes all traces
of hands and feet have ulcerated away. If you go into the great bazaar,
they are seen mingling with the crowds of buyers and sellers. If you go
to the great pagodas, where hundreds of people congregate daily, there
are lepers sitting on the steps, and appealing to the generosity of the
worshippers. At the gates of the royal city, and in the public _zayats_
or resting places, they are to be found; and when the leper has dragged
about his poor diseased body as long as he is able, he lies down to die,
a friendless, homeless outcast. In Burma, until we took the matter up,
there was no organised relief for them beyond chance coppers, no place of
refuge where they could be housed and provided for.

Seeing the lepers were so numerous, I began to investigate the matter,
and as a preliminary measure looked up the statistics of the leper
population of Burma. There had then been no census in Upper Burma, but
according to the census of 1881, there were upwards of 2,500 returned
as lepers in Lower Burma. Large as that number is, it is to be feared
that it does not fully represent the evil, for the people naturally
object to being called lepers even if they are, as though by avoiding
the name they could hope to avoid the awful thing. I have known a leper,
so far advanced as to have lost the whole of both his hands, and quite
emaciated in body, declare in answer to my question, that it was not
leprosy, only “Koh-ma-koung-bu,” a bad state of body. To form a fair
estimate of the actual number of lepers in Burma, we should have to
make a considerable addition to the 2,500 returned for Lower Burma,
and multiply that by two, to take in both Upper and Lower Burma. It is
probably not too much to say that there will be about one leper to every
thousand of the population.

I have often been asked what is the cause of leprosy. That is not a
question that can be answered in a word. The native of India makes short
work of it. He scarcely recognises any laws in nature but the one law of
his fate.

“I saw a leper,” writes Mr. Bailey,[3] “in a shop, sitting in the midst
of his goods. He sells betel nut, tobacco, oil, cakes, etc. He has a
leprous brother living with him, also a brother not leprous, and a niece
who already shows signs of the disease. We asked the healthy brother if
he were not afraid to live in the house, and he said that if it were not
God’s will he could not take the disease.” So far as science has yet
ascertained, three causes may be specified: (1) Insanitary conditions
of life generally, as predisposing to it. (2) Heredity, to some extent.
(3) Contagion resulting from lengthened residence in close company with
leprous and insanitary surroundings. It is not yet determined to what
extent these causes respectively operate. It is the business of the
Leprosy Commissioners, sent out at the expense of the National Leprosy
Fund, of which the Prince of Wales is the President, to try and ascertain
more on these points, by the careful and exhaustive inquiries they have
been pursuing; and their report is now awaited.

In India there are medical men who have studied this disease for many
years, for there are hundreds of thousands of lepers scattered over
India. Dr. Munro, an acknowledged authority, and a man of deep research,
says: “Summing up, therefore, leprosy is not always, but only very
rarely, transmitted from generation to generation, has never been proved
to be transmitted without contact, is not constantly transmitted even
when both parents are diseased, seldom affects more than one child in a
family, and those only successively, independently of age, sometimes the
youngest first, after contact, and goes back from child to parent when in
contact. From all I have learned of the disease, I can find no proof of
even the hereditary predisposition allowed to exist by Virchow, but feel
much inclined to believe with Landré, that contagion is the only cause of
its propagation.”

On the contrary, another expert, Dr. MacLaren, who has been in charge of
a leper asylum at Dehra for many years, and has very carefully studied
the question, has come to the conclusion, after an exhaustive inquiry
into the antecedents of all the inmates of his asylum, that 36·4 per
cent. of the cases were distinctly traceable to heredity. A curious light
has been thrown on these mutually contradictory conclusions, by the
contrast in the experience of two different homes for lepers shown in
the following quotation from Mr. Bailey’s book. At Tarn Táran there is a
large Government Institution, supported by the different municipalities
that send lepers to it. Here no restriction is placed on marriage, and
there is no attempt at the separation of the sexes, consequently many
children are born in the asylum. The missionary of the Church Missionary
Society stationed there says:—

“Of all the persons born at that asylum during the last thirty years,
I know of only two men who up to the present have not become confirmed
lepers. But even these, when last I saw them, began to show signs of the
disease upon them. How different is the history of the asylum at Almora,
which is largely maintained by the Mission to Lepers in India! There, for
many years past, this plan of separating the children from their parents
has been adopted with most gratifying results. Of all those who have been
thus separated, only one child has shown any signs of the disease. Many
more are now out in the world, and gaining their own livelihood. Surely
we have here a most striking proof, that in one direction at least a
great deal can be done towards stopping the spread of leprosy. What a
wide field for the exercise of Christian love is thrown open to us in
this branch of work! The followers of Jesus no longer possess the power
of curing ‘diseases and all manner of sicknesses’ by a touch or a word;
but in these who may soon be lepers, the ‘least’ of Christ’s little ones,
there is given to all an opportunity of stretching forth the hand of
loving compassion, and of saying, ‘Be clean.’”

At the time the public mind was greatly exercised on this leprosy
question, and the Leper Bill for India was being considered, the Bombay
Medical and Physical Society met to discuss the subject. There was a
general consensus of opinion amongst these medical men that heredity
is a mode of propagation, though some were of the contrary opinion. As
regards contagion as a means of propagation, the majority of the medical
men considered it was. It seems, however, to be not easily communicable
by contagion, but due to continuous and lengthened contact, together
with predisposing general causes. So far no cure for leprosy has been
discovered.

Some authorities have expressed the opinion that in some way fish-food,
especially when either salted or decomposed, is largely to blame for its
origin. The Burmese _ngapee_, which consists of partly decomposed fish
made into a paste, can hardly be a healthy article of diet, and may have
something to do with predisposing to this and other diseases in Burma.

As the disease advances, mutilation and wasting of the fingers and
toes set in, extending in time to the whole hand and foot. The sight
is often dimmed or lost, and a kind of horny substance grows over the
eyeballs. The skin of the face becomes thickened, giving the countenance
a peculiarly heavy, morose expression. Thus the disease progresses, and
the constitution becomes enfeebled, until the leper falls a victim to
some other malady; for leprosy is not often the immediate cause of death.
In the anæsthetic form of leprosy all feeling leaves the part specially
affected. Mr. Bailey tells of a case of this kind. “One poor fellow was
pointed out to me who had burnt himself fearfully, in burning the dead
body of a comrade. He knew nothing of it at the time—the dead burning the
dead!”

In the institution at Madras, out of 233 inmates, no less than 34 were
Europeans or Eurasians, chiefly the latter.

The leper’s lot in India and Burma is a terribly sad one. The following
picture of his condition is drawn by Colonel E. H. Paske, late Deputy
Commissioner of Kangra, Punjab:—

“Leprosy is a slow, creeping disease, seldom or never immediately fatal,
though shortening life. It is accompanied by a great deal of physical
pain and suffering, and an amount of mental torture varying with the
natural sensibilities of the victim. The leper’s life is burdensome to
himself, and his presence loathsome to those around him; no object can be
more pitiable, more repulsive, or more terrible.

“While the living body is undergoing a process of perceptible waste
and decay in a manner the most loathsome, the mind is subjected to the
most depressing influences, aggravated by the life of separation and
isolation which the sufferer is forced to lead. As soon as the leprous
taint becomes apparent, the victim is shunned by those around him, even
members of his household avoiding his touch. For a time he leads a life
of separation in his own home; but as the disease progresses, and his
appearance is rendered more repulsive, he becomes an outcast, wandering
through the country, subsisting by beggary, or else located in a small
hut at a distance from all other habitations. A truly piteous sight it is
to see the leper crouching outside his hovel, holding out wasted stumps
that once were hands, and crying for alms from the passing traveller.
When the leper resides near his home, his relatives, or fellow-villagers,
make provision for his wants, but for a time only; they soon tire of the
burden of his support. Too frequently, when police reports announce that
a leper has been found dead, has committed suicide, or has been burnt to
death in his hut, there is reason to believe that those who have been
responsible for the maintenance of the sufferer had adopted sure means
of freeing themselves from the burden. In one instance where a leper
had been murdered by his own sons and brothers, the prisoners on their
trial pleaded that they had put an end to the man’s existence at his own
request, to spare him from further suffering. In another instance, where
a leper had been buried alive by his next-of-kin, it was urged that this
mode of death would prevent the disease from becoming hereditary. Such
are briefly a few particulars of the life of the poor crippled leper
in India. An outcast, he still clings to life in a condition the most
helpless—an object so repulsive that charity almost loathes to approach
it.”

From the foregoing information it is abundantly evident that there is
great need for the establishment of Homes for Lepers. Mr. Bailey, in his
recent tour through India, visited twenty-six homes, where he saw in all
1,425 lepers, and he thinks that not more than 5,000 poor sufferers are
being provided for throughout the whole of the empire, out of several
hundreds of thousands who need such provision.

It was about the beginning of 1890, when our general mission work was
getting upon its feet, and the pressure of the early difficulties was
relieved a little, that I became concerned to do something for the
lepers in Upper Burma, for whom nothing was being done. I waited upon
Sir Charles Crosthwaite, then Chief Commissioner, to broach the subject
to him, and was very cordially received. Sir Charles welcomed the idea.
There was nothing of the kind, he said, in all Burma. Government could
not well do anything directly in the matter, and even if they could, he
remarked that we, the missionaries, could do it much better, that is,
more kindly and mercifully than they could. He would gladly do all he
could to help the scheme. Government would give the land, and he himself
started the subscription list with one hundred rupees.

Encouraged by this, I issued a printed circular, setting forth the object
of the undertaking, and appealing to all classes for subscriptions. There
was a very liberal response to this appeal from all classes and sections
of the population. I wrote to the Prince of Wales, as President of the
National Leprosy Fund. My application was handed to the Secretary of
the Fund, and in due time there came, in response to this application,
through the Viceroy of India, a draft in rupees which was the equivalent
of £80. I also put myself in communication with the Mission to Lepers,
and received from that Society immediate help in the form of a
contribution, and eventually we placed ourselves amongst the number of
Homes for Lepers supported by the Society.

In all 6,500 rupees were collected for a commencement. The land assigned
to us by Government was fenced in, and the first ward of the Home was
erected in January 1891, in the usual Burmese style—teak posts, board
floor raised a few feet from the ground, bamboo matting for the walls,
and thatched roof, with accommodation for fifteen inmates. The time had
then arrived for us to go home to England on furlough, and it fell to the
lot of my colleague, Mr. Bestall, to gather in the sufferers, if he could
induce them to trust themselves to our care.

[Illustration: THE HOME FOR LEPERS, MANDALAY.]

Many had been the predictions that the whole thing would prove a failure.
The lepers would never be induced to come; if they came they would never
stay. But these fears have not been realised. As regards the first
experiences in the Home for Lepers I could not do better than let Mr.
Bestall tell the story for himself. Towards the end of 1891 he writes:—

    “It is eight months to-day since I set out in the early morning
    to persuade a few lepers, who lay dying beneath the shadow
    of Mandalay’s pagodas, to enter the refuge we had prepared
    for them. I anticipated reluctance on the part of these lone
    creatures to commit themselves to the care of an Englishman.
    Only five years before, the Burmese king reigned in the palace.
    Suddenly all Mandalay was in a ferment of dread. English
    war boats had touched the strand, and British soldiers were
    marching through the streets, to take the city and capture
    King Theebaw. Only last year the crack of our rifles was heard
    in many parts of the country, and even as I write British
    troops are marching out of the city to take part in fresh
    expeditions on the frontiers. Burma is not the settled country
    it will be ten years hence, nor has there yet been time for the
    people of the conquered land to trust us implicitly. I quite
    expected, therefore, suspicion and fear on the part of these,
    the poorest and most desolate of our Burmese fellow-subjects.
    Persuasion was my only means of gathering them in. To many I
    was an executioner. What could I want with them except to put
    them to death? ‘We pray thee let us remain here,’ some said.
    ‘For mercy’s sake do not take me,’ others replied. All were in
    great terror. I could not but be touched by the timid, fearful
    attitude of many, and I was very thankful when I saw the first
    leper on his way in a bullock cart to our Home for Lepers. It
    was sad to see how they hugged their wretched dwellings, and
    clung to their filthy haunts. Christian philanthropy they could
    not understand. I promised them permission to return if they
    did not like the Home.

    “The first day’s work of rescue was a long one, and the
    breakfast ran into the tea hour before I returned with seven
    inmates for the Home for Lepers. Bazaars, where the people
    congregate to buy and sell all sorts of food, are always
    centres of attraction to paupers, lepers and pariah dogs. It
    is not uncommon to see a poor old leprous native handle the
    orange or banana on the stall, and ply the world-wide query
    ‘How much?’ It is a sad and even disgusting state of things,
    and it is a dangerous one too. For ages it has gone on; and as
    far as I know, that morning’s work eight months ago was the
    first attempt ever made in Burma to stay the evil and rescue
    the lepers.

    “We started with a small bungalow capable of housing fifteen
    inmates. In a little while the number was completed, and I
    thought of extending the work. I made use of the sufferers
    already gathered in, sending them out in bullock carts, in
    charge of a faithful Tamil helper, to advertise the comforts
    of the Home to their leprous countrymen. Narayanaswamy took
    a great interest in this work, and was invaluable as an
    assistant. He met a dreadful fate whilst living at the Home, as
    I shall afterwards describe, but for six months his fidelity
    and zeal in leper rescue work were admirable. You should have
    seen his face light up when he met me at the gate on my daily
    visit. ‘The leopards are all safe, sir,’ he would say. And
    though he knew no more of hunting than his own infant, he
    would often come across to the mission-house with joy to say,
    ‘Brought two more leopards to the Home to-day, sir.’ With his
    help I extended the work, and built four new houses for the
    reception of further cases. So that now we have three large
    bungalows and two hospital buildings, a caretaker’s house,
    and—for the purpose of preparing food for the settlement—a
    substantial brick cook-house. To-day we have fifty inmates in
    all stages of the disease, of all ages, varying from a little
    girl of twelve years, to an old man with hair as white as snow.

    “The site of the Leper Settlement is over five acres in extent.
    This area is divided into two sections by a bamboo fence. The
    western section is given up to female lepers, the eastern to
    males. The bungalows for men will accommodate sixty, and we
    have room for twenty-five women. The hospitals are used for
    separating cases of extreme disease from the other inmates. A
    mortuary has recently been added. Daily worship is conducted,
    generally by our few young men whom we are training for
    preachers and teachers. The singing is not good—how can it be
    with such a congregation? But the poor souls make a noise,
    and that is enough in these early days! If they can’t sing,
    they can and do listen. In preaching we have to begin at
    the beginning and finish there. The idea of a Saviour is to
    them very surprising. They always thought they had to save
    themselves. The cleansing Jesus is a new hope to them, for they
    have been taught to cleanse themselves.

    “Service over, the food is brought to the different houses.
    The boiled rice is carried in a large basket; the curry of
    meat, fish, or vegetables in earthenware bowls. The lepers
    eat like ravenous schoolboys, and I believe they have
    greater appetites than the hale and hearty inhabitants of
    Mandalay. After breakfast they sit and chat, and read, and—the
    inevitable—sleep. The few who are able keep the place clean;
    but no work can be done by the majority. Many of them are
    without fingers, some without hands. The evening meal is always
    welcomed, and we get evening worship when it is possible. At
    present we have no converted leper.[4] When we have a few
    Christian inmates, much of the religious work may be conducted
    by the lepers themselves. This institution, in addition to
    being a boon to the public, and to the diseased ones, will in
    time become to the latter the gate of heaven.

    “In the eight months of our work among them death has been
    very busy. Naturally the bodies of these sufferers are little
    able to cope with sickness. When a leper sinks he sinks like
    lead. The pale face, the sunken cheeks, the loss of appetite,
    the unnatural smile, all tell of a speedy end. We have had
    nine deaths. Some of them have been very touching. The worst
    case we have received was a woman named Mah So. She was
    revolting to look at. She had no hands, and her wrists were
    raw; she was stone blind, and her sightless eyes were covered
    with a horny skin; she had no feet, and her legs were eaten
    away to above the ankles; she could only crawl about upon her
    elbows and knees. I felt more pity for her than for any other
    fellow-creature I ever saw. I preached to her in a little hut
    made on purpose for her. She was in dense ignorance. It was
    very difficult work indeed. She became ill, and was quite
    helpless. She lingered for a week. Often she would say, ‘I want
    to die; it is no good living; I can’t eat, can’t sleep; I want
    to die.’ I asked her, ‘Where are you going?’ ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Would you like to go to Jesus?’ ‘Yes, but I don’t know Him.’
    I told her to repeat after me, ‘Lord Jesus, I am Mah So, a
    dying leper; take me in my weakness and save me now. Amen.’ She
    repeated the short prayer, and died during the night. I never
    saw a case of more utter misery, and never did a soul pray to
    Christ from a lower depth of emaciation and disease. Was not
    that prayer answered?

    “One night a young man came of his own accord to the Home.
    ‘Let me in; I am very ill,’ he said. He had only five days to
    live. Dysentery, fever and leprosy, a hideous trio, were all
    ‘dragging’ him, as the Burmans say. We had the opportunity of
    directing him to Christ in the last hours of his life. And
    other instances of dying lepers listening to the news of the
    lepers’ Saviour come to me as I write. But these cases are
    sufficient to show the nature of our spiritual work among this
    class of the population.

    “Our greatest trial has been the loss of the caretaker. On
    my return from Rangoon recently,[5] we rode over to visit the
    Home. Narayanaswamy met us at the gates, but his face wore
    so unnatural an expression that I at once asked him, ‘Down
    with fever again?’ ‘No, sir,’ he replied, ‘but I have a bad
    pain here,’ pointing to the back of his head. He looked so
    strange that I told him to go to the doctor. A bullock gharry
    stood at the gate. The poor fellow walked to it, but had to
    cross a bridge over a little ditch, in which lay some water.
    Immediately he saw the water he uttered a great cry, pressed
    his sides violently with his hands, and rushed, a very madman,
    back to the house. In a moment every nerve in his body seemed
    to spring to life. Nothing could cross his vision without
    causing him to start violently; water gave him a terrible
    fright, and I beheld before me the first case of hydrophobia I
    have ever seen. For the next twenty-four hours I had no rest.
    He was removed to our own premises, to keep him from terrifying
    the lepers. He rapidly grew worse, and he who, but a few days
    previously, had been the best, quietest and most willing helper
    I had, became a raving maniac. A whole night of paroxysms
    preceded his death. ‘I want to bite you,’ was his frequent cry.
    All the native people fled, and I had to face him alone. The
    doctor did what could be done. Strange to say, though it is not
    strange to the disease, in the last hour of his life he was as
    quiet and reasonable as when in health. ‘A little dog scratched
    my ear,’ he said to me. On looking I saw the smallest of marks
    behind his right ear. He died quite suddenly whilst in the act
    of taking medicine.”

Our aim in establishing and carrying on the Home for Lepers in Mandalay
is somewhat wide and far-reaching as a philanthropic enterprise:—

1. To succour and provide for the wretched, helpless, outcast lepers.
We call this institution not a jail, nor an asylum, but a home; and it
is our constant endeavour to make it as much of a home to them as the
sad circumstances will permit. That the lepers have taken to it is clear
from the fact that there has only been one case, since we commenced the
work, in which there was a desire to live again the old mendicant life,
and that was the case of a young leper gifted with a fair voice and able
to make a good living outside. This speaks volumes, for there is no law
either to compel them to come or to remain. It is clear that such a law
is not needed.

2. To offer the lepers the Gospel. Worship is held daily. No one is
compelled to listen to it, or in any way pressed to accept the Gospel.
It is believed they will gladly do so of themselves when they learn how
merciful it is, and see illustrations of it in the Home.

3. To segregate the lepers from the healthy population, and thus do what
we can to stamp out the disease. Formerly it was impossible to prevent
them from going about in the markets and other public places of resort,
but there is no reason for allowing that, now there is a comfortable home
provided for them.

4. To rescue the children of leprous parents, removing them from the
parents, with their consent, before they contract the disease; and to
provide for them. What a blessed preventive work is this!

5. Lastly, to follow the example of our Master, who never came in
contact with suffering but He relieved it; and thus to give a worthy and
consistent view of the true genius and spirit of the Christian religion
to the tens of thousands of the heathen who throng around us. To them
this Home for Lepers is an argument which they know how to appreciate,
and it will not be lost upon them.

Richard Baxter quaintly says: “As long as men have eyes as well as ears,
they will think they see your meaning as well as hear it; and of the
two senses they are more likely to trust their eyes as being the more
reliable sense of the two.” So if we can let them _see_ Christianity as
well as _hear_ it, we may hope that they will embrace it the sooner. No
one knows philanthropy when he sees it better than a native of the East.
Here, then, we trust there will always be Christianity writ large before
their eyes.

    “Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of
    wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed
    go free, and that ye break every yoke?

    “Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring
    the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the
    naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from
    thine own flesh?

    “Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine
    health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall
    go before thee; the glory of the Lord shall be thy reward.

    “Then shalt thou call, and the Lord shall answer; thou shalt
    cry, and He shall say, Here I am ....

    “And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the
    afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy
    darkness be as the noonday:

    “And the Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy
    soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like
    a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail
    not.

    “And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste
    places: thou shalt raise up the foundations of many
    generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the
    breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in.”—Isa. lviii. 6-12.

With this divinely inspired encomium upon practical godliness,—the
godliness that _does something_ to make the world brighter and better
around it, as distinguished from the bare and empty profession,—I close
this humble effort.

       *       *       *       *       *

The putting together of these chapters has been a labour of love, on
behalf of the country and people I wish to serve, accomplished with some
difficulty, during the brief breathing spaces afforded in the intervals
of a busy life, almost filled up with missionary advocacy, whilst on
furlough in England, and in the hope of returning very shortly to
Mandalay. I have here sought to give some information about a country
mostly new to English people, rich in interest as regards its different
races, their religions and customs, and the circumstances attending the
first few years of British rule. Of British rule in the East I entertain
a very high opinion as to its substantial justice, and its direct issue
in the general well-being of the people. It ought to be the aim of every
Christian amongst us to purge it of everything detrimental, and to make
it _all_ it should be. The responsibilities laid upon us as a people in
this respect are very great.

That Burma is destined to play an important part in the development and
civilisation of the far East, there can be little doubt, now that our
frontier is brought up to the confines of China, and that a railway is to
be constructed from Mandalay through the northern Shan States, that will
bring us within measurable distance of the great “Celestial Empire.” It
is of great importance that this development be not confined to material
things, but that Britain employ her great power and influence in the
direction of everything that will uplift the nations, which Providence
has so manifestly placed under her charge. Mission work amongst the
Burman race may be slow; humanly speaking, and judging by all former
experience, it looks likely to be so. That, however, is not the fault of
what is being done; we may safely assert that much more might be done if
the work were taken up in a more liberal and enterprising spirit. Are
you, dear reader, doing your share?

[Illustration]




FOOTNOTES


[1] Mr. Smeaton says in his book, _The Loyal Karens of Burma_, that
Judson had lived seven years in Rangoon, preaching the eternal God,
before a single Burman would admit His existence, while the poor
unnoticed Karens were continually passing his door singing by the way:—

    “God is eternal, His life is long—
    God is immortal, His life is long:
        One cycle He dies not,
        Two cycles He dies not,
        Perfect in great attributes,
        Age on age He dies not.”

[2] Lest the reader should get the impression, from the accompanying
illustration, that the tattooing appears white on the person, it may
be well to explain that the real colour is a very dark blue. The
photographer, fully alive to the resources of science, in order to oblige
us with a better view of the subject, induced the youth to smear the
tattooing plentifully with oil, with the result that the bright shining
of the sun on the glistening, dark-blue pattern brought it out white!

[3] “The Lepers of our Indian Empire,” by W. C. Bailey, Secretary of
the Mission to Lepers. (J. F. Shaw & Co., London) A book well worthy of
perusal by all who would like to know more on this subject.

[4] In a letter received four months later than this, Mr. Bestall writes:
“I am very glad to tell you of one poor old leper, one of the first
who came into the Home, finding Christ. He is a sad sight, but after
fourteen months’ instruction and thought, he has come out from among his
fellow-lepers and publicly professed Christ. I don’t expect him to live
long.”

[5] It is an interesting illustration of the lights and shadows mingling
in missionary life, that this journey to Rangoon Mr. Bestall speaks of,
was to meet and bring home to Mandalay his bride, and it was this young
lady’s first introduction to the Home for Lepers, in company with her
husband, that was marked by this tragic scene! It is worthy of mention in
this connection, that Mrs. Bestall, before going out to Burma, underwent
a two-years’ course of training in nursing and elementary medicine, in
order to be more useful among the women and girls of Burma.




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Psalms and Canticles.

(_Pointed for Chanting._)

=Words Only=, Limp cloth, 4_d._; Stiff cloth, red edges, 6_d._; Paste
Grain roan, gilt edges, 2_s._

=With Chants= (343), Staff Notation, Limp cloth, 1_s._; Cloth boards,
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=With Chants=, Tonic Sol-Fa, Limp cloth, 1_s._; Cloth boards, 1_s._ 6_d._

=With Chants=, Organ Edition, 4to. Cloth, red edges, 3_s._

    ‘The book supplies a great want in a way that should make it
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Wesley’s Hymns with Tunes & Psalms

and CANTICLES with 343 CHANTS, in One Volume. _Staff Notation._

Crown 8vo. (8 × 6 in., 1¼ in. thick.)

              _For Choirs._               _s._ _d._
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Crown 4to. (9 × 8½ in., 1½ in. thick.)

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The General Hymnary.

Containing 500 Hymns and Eight Canticles, for Mission and Special
Services.

SMALL TYPE.

    Paper Covers             2_d._
    Limp Cloth               3_d._
    Cloth Boards, red edges  6_d._

LARGE TYPE.

    Limp Cloth               6_d._
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THE HYMNARY (LARGE TYPE) is also kept in Superior Bindings:—

                                                               _s._ _d._
    Limp Roan, gilt edges                                       1    9
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This Hymn-Book is intended for Mission-Halls, and especially for
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system of Social and Philanthropic Agencies; but it is not designed to
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The General Hymnary Tune-Book.

Containing 406 Tunes, 34 Single Chants, and 42 Double Chants.

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This Book has been prepared by a Sub-committee, the convener of which was
the Rev. Dr. Stephenson. The Musical Editorship has been entrusted to
Mr. Alfred Rhodes, A.R.A.M., to whose skill and interest the Committee
are much indebted. It is right to say, however, that Mr. Rhodes is not
responsible for the selection of the tunes.

It is obvious that in a book intended for use in great popular
gatherings, many compositions must be included which do not meet
the demands of severe musical taste. Their utility for the purposes
contemplated in the publication is the justification of their presence.

The unusual metrical form of very many of the hymns has called for many
new tunes. In supplying them the Committee are happy to have been able to
secure the assistance of several able composers.


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=Marion West.= By M. E. SHEPHERD. Crown 8vo. Five Illustrations. Gilt
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=A Modern Exodus.= By FAYE HUNTINGTON. Crown 8vo. Illustrated.

=Eminent Methodist Women.= By ANNIE E. KEELING. Crown 8vo. With Four
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=Aunt Hannah and Martha and John.= By PANSY and Mrs. LIVINGSTONE. Crown
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=Judge Burnham’s Daughters.= By PANSY. Crown 8vo. Illustrated.

=Miss Dee Dunmore Bryant.= By PANSY. Crown 8vo. Illustrated.

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=Uncle Jonathan’s Walks In and Around London.= New and Enlarged Edition.
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PERRAM. Crown 8vo. Frontispiece.

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=Mad Margrete and Little Cunnvald.= A Norwegian Story. By NELLIE
CORNWALL. Crown 8vo. Three Page Illustrations.

=The Little Woman in Grey.= Scenes and Incidents in Home Mission Work. By
CHARLES R. PARSONS. Crown 8vo. Numerous Illustrations.

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Thirty-seven Illustrations. Gilt edges.

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=Severn to Tyne: The Story of Six English Rivers.= By EDITH M. EDWARDS.
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=History of the English Bible.= By Dr. MOULTON. New and Revised Edition.
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