Buddhism recognizes and allows polygamy, and it is incorrect to say that plurality of wives is uncommon. Several different kinds of wives are described in the Law of Manu, which contains even an account of the popular modern character, the wife like a mother. But many, probably most, men live happily with one wife all their lives. In any case, the first or principal wife has a distinct and honoured place in the household. No ceremony of marriage is necessary or, among the mass of the people, usual. The high Buddhist theory, how different from the practice of this joyous people, regards life as a mistake, this world as a vale of tears, transitory existence as the supreme evil, and bids us all aim at the goal of eternal rest. Therefore no Burmese monk would bless a marriage; he is more at home at a funeral. Mutual consent is the sole essential of a marriage. Similarly, divorce is easy. No Court need intervene. Ordinarily, separation is effected by arrangement between the parties, sometimes in the presence of the village elders. Although the Courts have not, perhaps, said the last word on the law of the subject, it is commonly accepted that, even without fault on either side, one party to the marriage can insist on divorce against the wish of the other party to the contract. In this respect men and women are on equal terms. The safeguard against capricious divorce is supplied by strict rules for the division of property at the dissolution of a marriage. In the case mentioned above, the one who insists on separation must abandon all property to the reluctant partner. Though so easy, divorce is far less common than might be expected. Most married people live together till death parts them. It is not unusual for divorced people to come together again. An appreciable proportion of the crimes of violence is due to the refusal of a woman to rejoin her divorced husband. I do not suggest that the Burmese law and practice of divorce would be suitable in communities of a more complex type. The comparatively even distribution of wealth, the fertility of the soil and the scantiness of the population, the absence alike of great fortunes and of abject, pinching poverty, the kindly disposition of the race, probably combine with more obscure elements to render somewhat primitive conditions possible. It is quite certain that in the stage which Burmese civilization has reached the simple marriage law works well and produces no obviously ill-effects. It need hardly be said that there is no bar to the marriage of widows.
Early in 1881 I went for a very short term to Myaung-my̆a, in the Delta. The subdivisional officer having suddenly broken down, I was sent to superintend the taking of the Census. At Myaung-my̆a, newly constituted the headquarters of a subdivision, there was no house. I lived in a zayat near the Court. Myaung-my̆a is now the chief town of an important district, with a Deputy Commissioner as well as a Divisional and District Judge. Having finished the Census, I went to Bassein, riding most of the way over bare rice-fields. Everywhere I was received with the generous hospitality characteristic of the Burmese people, and I made many pleasant acquaintances among Thugyis and villagers. One village headman lives in my memory, a stalwart Karen who in his youth had been the champion boxer at the Court of Mandalay. He said so, and he ought to know. Probably his position was not one of high eminence; Burmese and Karen boxing is a mild game. The challenger leaps into the ring; slapping his chest, he dances round, bidding all come on. It is one of the rules of the game that the players should be equally matched in size and weight. With much difficulty a competitor is found to fulfil the requirements and accept the challenge. At last preliminaries are arranged, and the boxers face each other in the ring. They may kick, and they may slap with open hand, but not with closed fist. As soon as a drop of blood is drawn from the slightest scratch, the fight is at an end. Gloves are not worn. This may sound barbarous, and should be exciting; as a matter of fact, it is very harmless and extremely dull. In my experience, Karens are better at the game than Burmans.
For the rest of my time as subdivisional officer, I stayed at Bassein as the guest of Colonel William Munro, the Deputy Commissioner, an officer of the old school who had spent his life in Burma. Colonel Munro made use of the aptitude presumed to have been acquired in the Secretariat during the past year and set me to write all his annual reports on the sole basis of the figures in the appended statements.
My next charge was the frontier subdivision of Mye-dè in the Tha-yet-my̆o district. The headquarter town was Allan-my̆o, called after Major Allan who was Quartermaster-General when the frontier was demarcated. Allan-my̆o lies on the Irrawaddy, just over five miles north of Tha-yet-my̆o,[46] the district headquarters. The distance had to be more than five miles, or travelling allowance for the journey would have been inadmissible. Above Allan-my̆o were the villages of Myedè and Mobôn. Long ago were two young Princes, blind. It was foretold that if they went down the Irrawaddy they should recover their sight. So they set out on a raft. Presently, at a place where they landed, they perceived a glimmering of the sky and exclaimed: “Mo-bôn; there is the sky above.” A few miles farther on, landing again, they saw the ground on which they stood, and cried: “Mye-dè; there is the earth beneath.” Thus was the prophecy fulfilled and the places received their names. Six miles north of the flagstaff on the fort at Myedè, then no longer a place of arms, was the starting-point of the frontier-line laid down by Lord Dalhousie’s personal direction.
The subdivision was a compact area of about a thousand square miles. A comparatively barren land, fringed by hills of no great height, intersected by many watercourses, now beds of dry sand, anon rushing torrents. These mountain-streams come down with sudden violence. Often returning from a walk or ride, one sat awaiting the subsidence of a river bubbling over a sandy bed where an hour or so before one had passed dry-shod. Sad stories were told of travellers cut off in mid-stream by a rapid flood and forced to spend the night on a diminishing islet of sand. As a rule these chaungs[47] were not too deep to ford on pony-back, though as often as not the pony created a painful diversion by sitting down unexpectedly and wallowing in the waves. In these northern wilds were no teeming rice-fields, no fat fisheries. The people were poor and unsophisticated, raising scanty rice-crops with the aid of primitive irrigation works, earning a precarious livelihood by boiling cutch (catechu) or cultivating taungya[48] on the hillsides. One valuable crop they had, sessamum (hnan); but the farmer could not reckon on a good hnan season every year. Scattered among the hills were villages of tame Chins who had drifted down from their own land in the distant north-west of Upper Burma. Here were to be seen women with faces tattoed in close blue lines, according to legend a precaution against the too demonstrative admiration of their Burmese neighbours. The effect was singularly unbecoming, and already the younger women were organizing successful resistance. Chins were excellent settlers, careful and frugal cultivators, their villages models of neatness and cleanliness as compared with Burmese villages similarly situate. Much as I love Burmans, I cannot honestly commend the state of their villages. Fenced in as a protection against dacoits, the houses closely jammed together with no respect for order; the paths, especially at the gateways, trodden into pulpy masses of mud by the trampling oxen; the ground-floor of each hut a pen where cattle are installed each night; a Burmese village is an insanitary though often picturesque abode. Even the odours seem to me less fragrant and pleasing than to some more enthusiastic votaries. In the simple agricultural conditions of this primitive community, the revenue work was very light. The only trouble arose from disputes about irrigation and rights to water. Bench work in criminal matters was not excessive, and most of the civil cases were tried by the My̆o-ôk (township officer). There was ample leisure for travelling. All the touring was done on Burman ponies, strong and willing little creatures, averaging about 12½ and never exceeding 13½ hands. At that time it was an article of faith that horses, or even ponies of Waler or Arab or country-bred classes, could not live in Burma. We have learnt better in recent years. Most of the riding was along jungle paths through in-tree forest on sandy soil, quite good going even in the rains; but there were craggy bits in the hills and quick-sands in the streams. Touring in Burma has always been less luxurious than camp-life in India. We travelled at every season of the year, carrying no tents, but finding abundant shelter in monasteries and zayats, or in frequent police-stations. Everywhere monks and villagers were hospitable and friendly. Circle Thugyis flourished, men who held office in succession to a long line of forefathers. Save in one respect, the people did not seem to have many criminal tendencies. It was natural to see the stocks near the village gate; it would have been surprising to see them occupied.
We marched with Sinbaungwè in Upper Burma. The border was marked by stone pillars at set intervals and by an actual line cut in the turf, which had to be inspected periodically and kept in visible repair. Along the frontier at intervals of four or five miles was a series of police posts. Picture a quadrangular enclosure girt by a kya-hlan[49] of stout bamboos interwoven with a bristling array of bamboo-spikes, quite an efficient protection against a rush if the heavy wooden gate was closed. Beside the gate stood a watch-tower. In the midst was a station-house and office, with a barred wooden cage for prisoners. Round this were grouped the small but sufficient houses of the constables and native officers. The posts were garrisoned entirely by local Burmans armed with das[50] and muskets. The policeman of those days was a picturesque person, in Burmese dress, of a pattern to some extent dependent on the taste of the Superintendent. A red-striped paso or lôngyi[51] marked the servant of the Queen. He wore his hair long, surmounted by a gaungbaung,[52] and was not expected to pose as a Gurkha sepoy. With all his many and pleasing virtues and vices, one quality his warmest admirers have never claimed for the average Burman, respect for discipline. You may drill Burmans till they look as smart as soldiers of the line, and you can teach them to shoot excellently. But so far it has not been found possible successfully to train them in habits of discipline and method. It was, therefore, never a surprise, though it excited clamorous if unreasonable wrath, when, on reaching a police post a few hundred yards from the frontier, one found the great gate ajar, the watch-tower empty, and the sentry either absent on his own more or less lawful occasions, or peacefully sleeping with his musket by his side. This was well enough in quiet times, but when the war came the result was seen in the desertion of the frontier posts, and their destruction by roving bands of dacoits.
The frontier-line started from a pillar on the bank of the Irrawaddy, on a spot visited by the great Governor-General himself. Hard by, on each side of the boundary, was a telegraph office. Though the wires ran from Rangoon to the border, and from the border to Mandalay, there was not sufficient comity between the Governments to allow the line to be linked. Every message to and from Upper Burma had to be carried by hand across the intervening space of a few yards and resignalled. Our telegraph office was the place where the subdivisional officer met the Wun[53] of Sinbaungwè for the discussion of frontier affairs. With that official, who was of about the same standing as myself, my relations were somewhat stiff, civil but hardly cordial. It is a mistake to suppose that the relations between Europeans and Burmans are less intimate now than in earlier days. Twenty years later, in similar circumstances, I should certainly have asked the Wun to breakfast or dinner. Then, our meetings were rigidly formal and official. The Wun used to annoy me by coming into the room wearing Burmese shoes, a studiously discourteous act.[54] I could think of no better retort than to keep my hat on during the interview. I dare say it was unworthy, but I think it was human to feel a thrill of satisfaction when, four or five years later, my old friend Maung Lat came to me in my office in Mandalay crouching on the ground in the Burmese attitude of respect. Maung Lat was a handsome man, of the usual type of Burmese district officials. After the annexation he took service under our Government and became a My̆o-ôk. He did good work, and felix opportunitate mortis, died before he was found out. At our meetings at Myedè, cattle-driving raids across the frontier were among the most frequent subjects of discussion. This was the darling sin of adventurous spirits on each side of the border. In a country where cattle are the most valuable of the farmer’s possessions, cattle theft is one of the crimes which most sorely vexes the magistrate’s righteous soul, and is most rigorously punished. All possible steps were taken to suppress it, and offenders were visited with stripes and imprisonment. Yet one could not help recognizing that to drive whole herds of oxen across the border, to evade police posts, to carry the spoil by unfrequented paths through the heart of our districts till it could be sold many miles away, perhaps in a cattle-market under the eyes of officials, was an attractive and exciting adventure. On the whole, our men had the worst of the game. If they were caught driving cattle from across the frontier, they were punished as if they had committed the offence in British territory, while cattle-thieves from Upper Burma who got over the line with their plunder were seldom brought to justice. Hence many wrangles with Maung Lat. Once only I really had the best of the encounter. I bluffed him into handing back to me on the spot a man who had been seized on our side and carried off to Sinbaungwè. At the time the incident seemed to me of international importance.
The man who had set his stamp on the subdivision was my friend Mr. Burgess, who spent there the first seven years of his service, greatly to the benefit of himself and of the people. He made roads, kept the peace, and impressed the countryside by his zeal for justice and good order. Even in those dark days, before the light of a Decentralization Commissions had shone, needless transfers seem to have been avoided. The township officer, my old and valued friend and colleague, Maung Tet Py̆o, held his charge for many years. He was an official of the very oldest school, not very learned, with only a working knowledge of codes, but thoroughly acquainted with every inch of his township, and with every man, woman, and child of his people. He had, of course, no English. I doubt if he was ever required to pass a departmental examination. His handwriting was so bad that my Burmese clerks often had to come to me to decipher it. Maung Tet Py̆o was a man of courage and energy, who somewhat shocked the straighter sect of Buddhists by being an ardent sportsman. Burmans told with admiration that he shot birds on the wing. He filled the measure of his days, was decorated, and many years after his retirement died honoured and lamented. Curiously enough, though so nearly illiterate, he will probably be remembered as the compiler of a book on the “Customary Laws of the Chins,” a treatise which attracted the attention of Mr. Jardine,[55] the Judicial Commissioner, and was translated under his direction. The manuscript was beautifully written out by my clerk, Maung Po, afterwards a My̆o-ôk, one of my many Burmese friends, who, I suspect, was responsible for more than the transcription.
At Tha-yet-my̆o, then a military station of some importance, were half the 43rd Regiment, still on this side of the frontier, the 44th Regiment, two battalions of Madras Infantry, and guns. The fort, north of the town, was duly garrisoned. At Allan-my̆o we had a detachment of British infantry in barracks on the hills east of the station. The civil officers were the Assistant Superintendent of Police, the late Mr. B. K. S. MacDermott, afterwards in the Commission, best of comrades and good fellows, and the Assistant Engineer, Mr. H. W. James, now Superintending Engineer. A small Customs Office was maintained for the registration of inland trade. The subdivisional officer was Collector of Customs, without fee or reward. In that capacity he had the use of the Customs boat, a stout English gig, very convenient for crossing the river, here about two miles wide. I have often seen, by the way, an elephant swim across with just enough of his head above water to seat the mahout.[56] At Allan-my̆o there was a decent little house, close to the river-bank. When the Irrawaddy rose, the room on the ground-floor was generally flooded. At the beginning of the rains this room used to be invaded by swarms of tiny land-crabs, more pleasing visitors than scorpions. Sometimes for a few days the whole town was under water, and we went about in boats.
Myedè, traversed by the Pegu Yoma, was pleasanter, but less healthy, than the Delta. Here I had an attack of malarial fever, of no great severity, which left me subject to a recurrence for the next fourteen years or so. After that it seemed to be worn out. We had also in my time a dreadful outbreak of cholera throughout the subdivision. Deaths were reckoned by scores, and villages were almost depopulated. Riding to visit the infected parts, we expected to find the dead lying unburied in streets and houses; happily the expectation was not literally fulfilled.
Speaking from my personal experience, I regard Burma as a healthy country as compared with other regions of the tropics. Much depends on the comfort in which one lives. The very bad name which Burma no doubt has acquired is due to a great extent to the rapid succession of the three Burmese Wars. After each of these wars, troops, military and civil officers, and police suffered many hardships and privations, bivouacking under the stars, and often irregularly fed. In these conditions sickness ensued, and much mortality and invaliding. For people properly housed and assured of a square meal at the right time, Burma is healthy enough. For those who work all the year round in the jungles of Upper Burma, it is rather sickly. On the whole, Lower Burma, except Arakan and the tracts bordering on the Yomas, is healthier than Upper Burma. Cholera and plague are not peculiar to Burma, and are not more deadly than in other parts of India.
Of the wealth of insect-life much has been written. Besides mosquitoes, ants, white, red, and black, flying and merely creeping, abound in copious variety. Once at least they stopped a ball at Government House, flying in hosts, dropping their wings and therewith their bodies, and reducing the floor to a mucous mass. For me, at Allan-my̆o, others of their species eviscerated all my books during my brief absence. At the beginning of the rains strange creeping, crawling, flying things, slimy things with legs, appear in swarms. The centipede makes his nest in your sponge; the scorpion lurks in your boot. Snakes, too, are fairly numerous and of many kinds, from the hamadryad who chases the wayfarer, to the Russell’s viper who lies dormant in his path, and when trodden on turns like any worm. Apart from these disadvantages, I have no complaint to make of Burma as a country to live in.
While discussing these generalities, I may say a few words about the climate. Naturally, in so large an extent of country, this is subject to considerable variations. The Delta is hot and steamy with an abundant never-failing rainfall, and no cold weather to speak of. Much of Upper Burma is an arid plain, with frequent hills, hot and dry, but relieved by a pleasant cold season. Even here we do not seem to get the constant stifling heat, day and night, of which we hear in the plains of Northern India. I suppose some people find the heat trying. An old friend of mine had the habit after dinner of calling his neighbour’s attention to a picture on the wall, while he surreptitiously emptied his finger-bowl down his (own) neck. In Mandalay for some months of the wet season (not so very wet) a tearing wind rages, and is apt to shatter one’s nerves. In Lower Burma the persistent rainfall is impressive. People who have lived there hardly notice that it ever rains in England. But it seldom pours both morning and evening. Generally it is possible to get out for exercise either at dawn or at close of day.
To return to my subdivision. By an arrangement which seems anomalous, but which worked well enough, for a substantial part of my sojourn in Myedè I was also Cantonment Magistrate at Tha-yet-my̆o. The Commanding Officer most kindly supervised the establishment which dealt with hedges and ditches. My duty was to try civil and criminal cases, keep the accounts, and attend the periodical meetings of the Cantonment Committee. These were friendly gatherings where, unless the secretary officiously intervened, many pleasant stories whiled away the tedious hours. If I worked very hard, my duties on an average occupied about five or six hours a week, for which I drew an allowance of Rs. 200 a month. I spoil no one’s market by revealing the existence of this fat sinecure; the stipend was reduced by an economical Commission in 1887, and has since been abolished. My Deputy Commissioners were Colonel Horatio Nelson Davies, who had been Sir Arthur Phayre’s secretary, my friend R. H. Pilcher, and Captain (now Colonel) W. F. H. Grey, from all of whom I received much kindness. Nor can I forbear to mention the hospitality of Captain William Cooke,[57] whose house was always open to me, and with whom the friendship begun in those distant days still flourishes. The chaplain, the Rev. J. D. Briscoe, one of the best of men, was also among my allies. He died, most sincerely mourned, in the flower of his age, I believe from the effects of asceticism practised from no doctrinal motives, but for the sake of example to the soldiers among whom he worked.
Some excitement was caused by the coming of a Burmese embassy accredited to the Viceroy. Among them was the Kyaukmyaung Atwin-Wun,[58] son-in-law, of the Taingda Mingyi, whom afterwards I knew well at Mandalay. Mr. Pilcher, who was deputed to accompany them to Simla, had met them all frequently when Assistant Resident at the Burmese Court. But though he was distinguished from his fellows by a flowing beard, they declined to recognize him, professing that in their eyes all kalas were alike. Robert Pilcher had other attributes besides his beard which might have commended him to Burmese officials. His knowledge of their language was scholarly and profound, while his sympathy with the people was infinite. Nothing that concerned them was alien from him. An instance may be given. Once in after-years he was with a column on march. Halting the column, he sat down by the wayside to get some information from a Burman passer-by. Presently the patient Commanding Officer asked gently if the information had been extracted. “I am so sorry,” was the reply; “I forgot all about it. He was telling me such an interesting story about his aunt.” The Mission was hospitably received and entertained at Simla, but returned without having effected any useful purpose. Which reminds me of the Burman schoolboy who, asked to translate mortuus est re infectâ, ventured to reply: “He died of an infectious disease.”
But by far the most thrilling incident of my stay at Allan-my̆o was the visit of Sir Frederick Roberts. He came as Commander-in-Chief of the Madras Army, the troops in Burma being in the Madras command.[59] Attended by his staff, among whom were General Godfrey Clerk,[60] Captain Neville Chamberlain,[61] and Captain G. Pretyman.[62] His Excellency came to inspect the frontier stations, and marched from Allan-my̆o to Toungoo across the Yôma,[63] which parts the Tha-yet-my̆o and Toungoo districts. Fresh from the glories of Afghanistan and the march to Kandahar, though then but midway in his illustrious career, Sir Frederick Roberts was a hero in all men’s eyes. It was my happy lot to make arrangements for his march and to accompany him through my subdivision. Thus as a young man I had the privilege of experiencing the unrivalled charm and personal attraction or this great soldier. To the end of my days in the East I have seen the eyes of old native officers light up at the mention of Lord Roberts Sahib. Not Nelson himself inspired more affection and enthusiasm in officers and men who served and followed him.
At the close of this year, being sent to represent the Tha-yet-my̆o District, I saw the first of many Viceroys who visited Burma, Lord Ripon. I need hardly say that I was too junior to be brought into immediate contact with His Excellency or his staff. Mr. Primrose[64] was private secretary, and Major Evelyn Baring,[65] Finance Member, was of the Viceroy’s party. The most obvious result of Major Baring’s visit was the stoppage of most of our remunerative jail industries. The order for discontinuance was of general application throughout India; Burma, still an unsophisticated place, under a ruler who had learned to obey, was the only Province which made a serious effort to carry the order into effect. The usual festivities were held in honour of the Viceroy’s visit, a ball, a levée, and a garden-party. The most picturesque incident that lingers in my mind is the posting of venerable Burmese officers, in fur coats, clasping to their breasts silver-mounted das, in the corridors of Government House, as a-thet-daw-saung[66] to Their Excellencies.
At Tha-yet-my̆o, for the first and last time, and only for a few days, I held charge of a district as acting Deputy Commissioner. For various reasons there was a temporary lack of senior officers in the district. For a short period I was not only Deputy Commissioner, but also Cantonment Magistrate, Superintendent of Police, and Superintendent of the Jail. I did not succeed in drawing the pay of all these offices.
Early in 1883 the acting Chief Commissioner, Mr. Crosthwaite,[67] very considerately gave me the option of coming to Rangoon as Junior Secretary. In those days it was usual for officers, especially young officers, to go where they were sent, without previous reference and without room for remonstrance. Nearly twenty years passed before I was again consulted as to my posting. Recently a different practice seems to have developed. Although from a financial point of view the move to Rangoon was ruinous, we decided to risk it and went down. Except for two brief intervals, I stayed in the Secretariat till early in 1891. Altogether I spent in the office eleven years, a period surpassed only, I think, by my friend Mr. C. G. Bayne.[68] In 1883 Mr. Symes was Secretary, Mr. Burgess being on leave.
Life was much the same as when we were here two years before. Rangoon was still a pleasant social place. We rode in the mornings, and played polo or tennis in the afternoons, gave a good many hours to dancing and whist, went to the races twice a year, and in the rains to hunts once a week. Some were even so energetic as to play tennis two or three times a week before breakfast, a practice which our less hardy successors have abandoned. We drove to office and out to dinner in dogcarts. Not in those days did the Junior Secretary or his wife regard a brougham as indispensable. Among the pleasantest meetings were hunt finishes, hospitable gatherings where, at the end of the run, riders and their friends were rewarded with pegs and encouraged to dance. Jests and laughter filled the air. The cheerful subaltern leant over the veranda, encouraging a reluctant rider at the last show-jump: “Give him his head, sir; can’t you see the pony wants to jump?” Poor Cockeram; one of the first to fall in the guerilla warfare in Upper Burma. The lotteries on the races were still fairly select meetings of friends and acquaintances. In 1885 I attended them for the last time, and bandied quips with a famous special correspondent. In reply to his remark that we were making history, I made the obvious and unluckily too true reply that we left that to him. I am still somewhat surprised that he, an Irishman, should have thought it necessary gravely to explain the origin and meaning of his observation.
The work in the Secretariat was hard enough, but not so overwhelming as in later times. There was a staff of good old-fashioned clerks, most of whom had been in the office many years, whose experience compensated the somewhat primitive methods inherited from days when Sir Arthur Phayre himself went daily to the Secretariat in Godwin Road. The office was quite efficient, bearing the impress of three excellent Secretaries, Major Street, Mr. Burgess, and Mr. Symes, each of the finest quality in his own way. Mr. Crosthwaite, whose name is associated with Burma more intensely than that of anyone save Sir Arthur Phayre, acted as Chief Commissioner for a year in 1883-84, during Mr. Bernard’s absence on leave.
About this time India was violently agitated by the Ilbert Bill. In all parts of India the bulk of the magisterial work is done by native officers. Living in places more or less remote were many Europeans, planters and others, whom it was thought undesirable to subject to the jurisdiction of Indians. The law therefore ordained that only magistrates themselves Europeans and of proved experience should exercise powers in criminal cases over persons classed as European British subjects. This was, I venture to say, a wise and necessary provision. By the Ilbert Bill it was proposed to abolish this distinction and to place Europeans and natives on the same footing in respect of criminal procedure. It was a doctrinaire proposal of the worst kind, subversive of the prestige of the ruling race, and quite uncalled for by the circumstances and exigencies of the time. One thing only can be said in its favour. It was offered as a voluntary boon, not as a concession to seditious clamour and agitation. By all classes of Europeans the proposal was vehemently opposed. In many parts, especially in Bengal, passionate excitement was stirred up. The Viceroy, believed to have been the only begetter of the Bill, seated on the Olympian heights of Simla, failed to realize the extent and force of the opposition to his project. Not till he came down to Calcutta did he understand the situation. In the capital there was enough visible ferment to indicate the seething passions beneath. Wild stories are told of the intentions of the European community, had the Bill been pressed. If Lord Ripon had not come to Calcutta, he would have continued in ignorance, surrounded only by officials, unblest by the saving grace of contact with living public opinion. In Burma alone among the Provinces of India, the subject failed to kindle a spark of vital interest. There were few Europeans scattered through the country likely to be affected by the proposed change in the law. And, for reasons which it would not be difficult to analyze, Europeans in Burma have seldom been very clamorous in expression. By some of the more ardent spirits, however, it was felt that Rangoon ought not to be left entirely out of the movement. After much delay, a meeting to demonstrate and protest against the Bill was convened at Mr. Fowle’s new Town Hall for one fine Saturday afternoon. On the morning of the appointed day, the Rangoon Gazette published in advance an account of the meeting, with the names of the speakers very thinly disguised, and with parodies of the speeches they were expected to deliver. The plot was hatched in the Secretariat. Though I was pars exigua, the account was mainly written by Mr. Bayne. The secret was never disclosed, and the incident has no doubt long ago been forgotten. At the time our jeu d’esprit had a succès fou. This we knew by the wealth of abuse heaped on our unknown heads by correspondents of the rival newspaper, the Rangoon Times. Further ill-luck attended the meeting. Just before it opened, news came that a compromise had been effected, and that substantial modifications were to be made in the Bill. The meeting was held, and speeches, much as we had foretold, were delivered, but as the measure was already dead the demonstration fell rather flat.
For two or three months in 1884 I acted as Revenue Secretary and Director of Agriculture. In that capacity I signed and issued the first of the annual forecasts of the exportable surplus of the rice-crop. Candour compels me to confess that the signature was all that I contributed to this or any later forecast. For the first Mr. Bernard was entirely responsible. With some misgiving he raised the figure to 975,000 tons. These forecasts have been issued year by year ever since, and on the average have been so close to the actuals as to evoke the expressed admiration of the mercantile community. The latest forecast predicted a surplus of over 2,600,000 tons, a remarkable increase in less than thirty years.
By another stroke of luck I acted as Secretary for three months early in 1885 in place of Mr. Symes on privilege leave. Later in the year, owing to Mr. Burgess’s return for a short time to the Secretariat, I had my last experience of subdivisional work. My̆anaung, just above the Delta, but not in the dry tract, was one of the most charming subdivisions. The Deputy-Commissioner, Mr. A. M. B. Irwin,[69] was most able and genial, an admirable chief whose knowledge of district work has never been surpassed. These months were pleasant and restful after the somewhat strenuous life of the Secretariat. The duties were light, the house comfortable, the riding good. Now a railway runs through the subdivision, but till recently all travelling was by unmetalled roads, jungle paths, and along the embankment which restrained the river. Two township officers, one at Kanaung, one at Kyangin, shared the ordinary work.
Among the reforms introduced by Mr. Bernard was the selection of a certain proportion of My̆o-ôks by competitive examination. My̆o-ôks, it will be remembered, are officers, generally natives of the Province, who have charge of townships. Previously they had been appointed by Government solely on the recommendation of Commissioners and other high officers. Mr. Bernard devised a system combining nomination and competition. But a great many direct appointments were still made. The system is still in force except that recently I threw the competitive examination open to all young men of good health and character. On the whole the plan has worked well. A great many of the My̆o-ôks appointed after examination have proved themselves very valuable officers. I agree that many of our best My̆o-ôks and Extra Assistant Commissioners have been men of character and integrity, well educated in their own language, but hardly likely to secure appointments by open competition. No one appreciates these men more highly than I do. But the scheme of administration becomes yearly more complex. And in an increasing number of offices a good knowledge of English is essential. By the competitive system, if a high standard is maintained, some of the best among the educated youth are attracted to Government service, while the reservation of a number of posts for direct appointment keeps open the door for those who are distinguished by birth and character rather than by academic aptitude. The objection that under the open competitive system we have no guarantee of candidates’ social standing has very little weight in Burma. It is a country where fraternity and equality are realities, where class distinctions are of little value. One of my My̆o-ôks was of the old school. Formerly a pleader, he had earned his appointment by being instrumental in the capture of the Myingun Prince.[70] The other was a competitioner, and not perhaps a good example of my thesis. A man of good education who had been a schoolmaster, he seems to have missed his vocation by becoming a Judge and magistrate. His wife, a clever bustling woman, was thought to supply some of her husband’s deficiencies. It was said, probably untruly, that on occasion she would come into Court and stir up the peons[71] and punka-pullers. The My̆o-ôk’s house was a pleasant place to visit. He had two charming little daughters of tender years, who, in a most engaging way, used to stand up and recite to visitors “Lord Ullin’s Daughter,” and other English verses. My friend afterwards resumed his original profession, which no doubt suited him better. His son is an officer of great ability and distinction.
Recalling my quiet life at My̆anaung, I am reminded of some instances of Burmese superstition. Some fishermen of that place before starting work made the customary offerings to nats. One of them placed his offering of rice in a dish from which the dogs were fed. His companions exclaimed at this impious act and warned him of the consequences. That day, when they were all in their boats, a monstrous crocodile appeared. “See,” said the fishermen, “the result of your wickedness.” The offender took no heed of the warning, but next day repeated his insult to the nats. So he filled the cup of his iniquity. That morning, in the midst of the fishing, the crocodile again appeared. This time the contemner of nats was knocked out of his boat and perished in the waters.
Burmans are firm believers in ghosts, know well the danger of passing graveyards after dark, and are convinced of the existence of good and evil spirits. I remember one curious case in which superstitious terror had a lamentable issue. In the middle of the rains a man was cutting grass in a field. The rain pattered noisily on his kamauk.[72] Suddenly he heard close behind him what sounded like an unearthly voice. In a panic he turned hastily and made a cut with his sickle-shaped knife, unhappily with fatal effect. The speaker was a harmless villager, whose voice, by evil chance, was singularly gruff. In a moment, recognizing the catastrophe, the grass-cutter gave his best attention to the victim of his fear, but in vain. The police quaintly reported that the man had cut in the direction of the sound, “thinking it was a devil, but admitted that he was mistaken.” I am glad to say that we were not so pedantic as to bring the grass-cutter to trial for his misadventure which he sincerely regretted.
Mr. Burgess having gone to act as Commissioner, I was recalled to the Secretariat in some haste, in my former capacity as Junior Secretary. It was in the midst of the excitement of a probable rupture with Upper Burma. Our relations with the Court of Mandalay had long ceased to be cordial. So long ago as 1879 our representative had been withdrawn, and such communications as were necessary with the Burmese Government had been conducted by letter. In the absence of the Resident matters gradually drifted from bad to worse. British subjects, travellers and traders from Lower Burma, were subjected to insult and violence by local officials, and representations to the central authority demanding redress were generally fruitless. In contravention of the express terms of the Treaty of 1867, monopolies were created to the detriment of trade both in Upper and Lower Burma. Owing to the weakness and corruption of the Burmese Government, society became thoroughly disorganized, so that turbulent tracts on the frontier became a standing menace to the peace of our districts. At the same time, the Burmese Government showed a marked and persistent anxiety to enter into alliances with foreign Powers, in such a manner and to such an extent as to give ground for apprehension that grave political trouble might result. While the Indian Government was unrepresented in Mandalay, representatives of France and Italy were welcomed, and two separate embassies were sent to Europe, one under the guise of a merely commercial mission, for the purpose of contracting new and if possible close alliances with European Powers. Neither of these missions visited England or showed any desire to win the friendship of representatives of the British Government at the Courts to which the Burmese envoys were accredited. Throughout the reign of King Mindôn, young scions of families of leading men about the Court were sent to England, France, and Italy to study the language and manners of European countries. In the reign of his successor this policy was continued, with the studied omission of England.[73]
Having no Resident, we had to find means of keeping ourselves informed of events in Mandalay. One of our correspondents was Mr. A. E. Rawlings, the Postmaster, who for a moderate subsidy wrote periodical news-letters to the Secretary. He sent much useful and interesting matter. There was also another correspondent whose reports were extraordinarily accurate and instructive, and from whose keen vision no secret transaction was hidden.
It has always seemed to me that the proximate cause of the annexation of Upper Burma was the patriotic and enlightened Minister known as the Kinwun Mingyi. Some years before, this gentleman had travelled in Europe as head of a commercial mission, and had been received with great distinction. His progress was a triumph; insignia of Continental orders, illuminated addresses of English manufacturing towns, were showered upon him as if he had been Minister of the Great Mogul. To us who realize the insignificance of the King of Burma as a potentate, these proceedings savour of the ridiculous. During this visit the Kinwun Mingyi obtained some superficial knowledge of European politics and of the relations between the Great Powers. Many years later, when there was no longer a British Resident at Mandalay, and when the path seemed clear of obstacles, the Mingyi conceived the ingenious plan of contracting political relations and making treaties with several States, such as France, Germany, and Italy. The subtle intention was to play off one against another, so that, while none would have predominant influence, all would be interested in opposing and thwarting the ambitious designs of Great Britain. There was some statesmanship in the project, but not quite enough; and with the best intentions the Mingyi compassed the downfall of the dynasty of which he was a devoted servant. By the autumn of 1885 negotiations with France had made good progress. A French Consul was appointed to Mandalay, and plans for the foundation of a French bank were initiated. A treaty was provisionally concluded, though never formally ratified. The ostensible cause of the rupture with the Burmese Court was the imposition of an enormous fine on the Bombay Burma Trading Corporation, a British company carrying on extensive operations in Upper Burma forests. Probably in any case the British Government would have intervened, on account of the treatment received by the Corporation. But the ultimate cause of intervention was the apprehension lest France or some other European Power should establish a preponderant influence in Upper Burma, and create a situation which would render our position in Lower Burma intolerable.
When I got back to Rangoon, the preliminary correspondence with India and Mandalay was starting. It was all desperately urgent and deadly secret, and the Chief Commissioner and his Secretary were more than fully occupied. The Burmese answer to our first representation was deliberately curt and discourteous. Under the orders of the Government of India an ultimatum was therefore sent to the King of Burma. He was required to suspend the execution of the decree against the Corporation, to receive at Mandalay an envoy from the Viceroy with a view to the settlement of the matter in issue, and for the future to permit the residence at the capital of an agent of the Indian Government, who should be received and treated with the respect due to the Government which he represented. It was further intimated that the Burmese Government would be required to regulate its external relations in accordance with advice of the Government of India, and to afford facilities for opening up British trade with China.[74]
The ultimatum was despatched on the 22nd of October, 1885. It was taken by Captain Cooper, of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, on the steamer Ashley Eden, which went specially to Mandalay for the purpose. An answer was required by the 10th of November. In default of receiving a reply Captain Cooper was instructed to leave Mandalay on a fixed date. The mission was of a hazardous nature. Captain Cooper discharged it with intrepidity and skill. He remained with his steamer fires banked, and he returned bearing the haughty and uncompromising answer of the Burmese Government. As he passed down the river he ran the gauntlet of the fire of forts on the bank. Such was the Burmese notion of the courtesy due to envoys. The answer was received in Rangoon on the 9th of November. Two days earlier the King of Burma issued a proclamation calling on his subjects to rally round him to resist the unjust demands of the British Government, and expressing his determination to efface these heretic foreigners and conquer and annex their country.[75]
When the ultimatum was considered by the Burmese Court and Government, there seems to have been a division of counsel. The two highest officers of State were two Mingyis, the virtuous and temperate Kinwun, the corrupt and blood-thirsty Taingda. The Queen, Sûpăya-lât, was certainly present when the situation was discussed. The Kinwun advised moderation and diplomacy; the Taingda was for blood and fury. The Queen’s voice was for resistance. She had the unexampled impertinence to tell the Kinwun Mingyi, a man of mature and reverend years, her father’s trusted Councillor, that when she had beaten the English she would dress him in a tamein[76] and send him to live among the women. The counsels of unreason prevailed. The proclamation was issued, and futile resistance was undertaken.
Meanwhile, in anticipation of an unfavourable reply to the ultimatum, preparations for the advance on Mandalay had been rapidly made. The speed with which the expedition was organized and set in motion was almost incredible. The first orders for the mobilization of troops were issued by Government of India on or about the 19th of October; the expeditionary force crossed the frontier on the 14th of November, 1885. The force was of all arms, including some Madras Cavalry and some mounted infantry. Except the detachment of the Rangoon Volunteer Rifles, which patriotically volunteered for active service, all the troops were sent from India. For the promptitude of the despatch from Rangoon, the chief credit is due to Mr. Bernard himself, who placed all the resources of his position and all his personal energy and experience at the disposal of the military authorities. Every day saw him on the river-bank supervising and urging on the preparations. Much praise is due also to the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, which made every vessel of their fleet available and carried the whole expedition. Of course, this was not all pure patriotism on the part of the Company; but the service rendered by them was of inestimable value, and contributed largely to the brilliant success of the operations. The command of the force was entrusted to Major-General Harry Prendergast, V.C.,[77] a most gallant and distinguished officer, who had already served in Burma, and was thus specially qualified for the appointment. Already, in the pursuit of intelligence, he had even penetrated into Upper Burma in peaceful guise. In command of brigades were Brigadier-General G. S. White, V.C.,[78] Brigadier-General Norman, and Brigadier-General Forde; while the staff included Major W. P. Symons,[79] then at the beginning of a glorious career. The troops were specially enjoined to treat the people of the country with kindness and consideration. One precept directed that in addressing a Burman the soldier should say “Kinbya,” not “Hey, Johnny!” A book of Burmese phrases, laboriously compiled by a gentleman unacquainted with the language, was profusely distributed. It is pleasant to be able to record, with perfect honesty, that never did army of occupation behave with more restraint and moderation, or more readily win the esteem and respect of a subject people.
The Chief Civil and Political Officer with the expedition was Colonel E. B. Sladen[80] of the Burma Commission. Four young officers Mr. R. Phayre, C.S.,[81] Mr. A. S. Fleming, C.S., Captain G. S. Eyre, of the Commission, and Mr. G. G. Collins accompanied the force as civil officers. Mr. R. C. Stevenson, also of the police, one of the foremost Burmese scholars, was attached to General Prendergast as chief interpreter.
On the 14th November the frontier was crossed, on the 17th Minhla, on the 23rd Pagan, on the 25th Myingyan were successively occupied. Except at Minhla, where the fort which still stands on the river-bank was not taken without a brisk fight, scarcely any resistance was encountered. And as the flotilla moved up the river, even in Mandalay the determination to resist began to fail. Just before the expedition reached Ava the Kinwun Mingyi arrived, and after some negotiation arranged the unconditional surrender of the capital and of the Royal Family. On the 26th and 27th November the forts at Ava and Sagaing were given up, and the troops at Ava laid down their arms. On the 28th the flotilla moored off the town, and General Prendergast occupied Mandalay. The city and the palace were surrounded, while Colonel Sladen, with the cool courage which was his best distinction, entered the palace alone, and remained there for a day and a night, settling the details of the King’s surrender. Next day, in a little summer-house in the palace garden, King Thebaw gave himself up to the victorious General, and the dynasty of Alaungpăyá ruled no more. After all, it was a mushroom growth, having held sway for little more than 130 years.[82] The King and his two Queens, with their mother and her eldest daughter, were driven through the streets of Mandalay in little bullock-drawn carriages, the only vehicles available. They were placed on board the steamer Thooreah, and conveyed to Rangoon. The flimsy little summer-house fell into decay, and no longer exists. The tablet which marks its site, and commemorates the most striking event in its history, will doubtless remain as long as the British flag flies over Mandalay.
The first report of the King’s surrender reached Rangoon in a non-official telegram. By luck or good management we were enabled to telegraph the tidings simultaneously to the Secretary of State, and to save his Lordship from the shock of receiving the first intimation of the fall of Mandalay from his morning paper. Of course, the telegraph line was interrupted. This message came from Tha-yet-my̆o, brought thither by the King’s steamer.
As the junior officer in the Secretariat, I was told off to board the Thooreah on her arrival. I was thus the first officer in Rangoon to see the ex-King and his Queens. King Thebaw was in appearance a Burman of very ordinary type. He looked neither dissipated nor cruel; nor did he show any emotion or feeling of his melancholy position. His somewhat heavy features were unmistakably those of the House of Alaungpăyá. Both he and his elder sister (who died not long ago) closely resembled the familiar picture of Mindôn Min. Queen Sūpăyá-lāt’s features were more finely marked than is usual with Burmese ladies. She bore no appearance of special depravity, but she certainly looked a little shrew. The legend of Sūpăyá-lāt is that she was a monster of cruelty and wickedness, and that she was mainly responsible for all acts of State during her husband’s reign. From all that I heard in Mandalay, where I had many sources of information, for the most part unfriendly to the ex-Queen, I believe that both her wickedness and her influence have been much exaggerated. She seems to have been of a jealous temper, and to have checked any inclination on the part of her husband to follow the footsteps of Mindôn Min. Doubtless it went hard with any maid who attracted the King’s attention. On one of the golden doors of the palace used to be shown bloodstains, marks of a little hand, signs of the tragic end of a Princess who had incurred the Queen’s wrath. (I am aware of the learned explanation of these marks, but the legend is far more interesting.) Beyond this there is no credible evidence of her cruelty, nor is it well established that she ruled the State. Clearly she wielded some influence; but apart from the story of her speech to the Kinwun Mingyi, the most arrogant action imputed to her was that she used to have her meals before the King. Of course, this was very unusual and unseemly for a Burmese woman of any class. It hardly shows that she was paramount in the direction of the kingdom. The royal exiles were transferred to the R.I.M.S. Clive, and, after remaining for a few days in Rangoon, were taken to Madras. They were finally transferred to Ratnagiri in the Bombay Presidency, where King Thebaw and Sūpăyá-lāt still live. The poor little second Queen, of whom nothing, good or bad, has ever been heard, died last year. An irresponsible journalist lately suggested that Ratnagiri was an unsuitable place of abode for these fallen dignitaries. It is one of the best places that could be chosen. They and their family have been quite healthy. As they cannot be allowed to return to Burma, they are likely to be as contented there as elsewhere. Two of the Ministers and a few retainers were with difficulty persuaded to accompany their fallen master. The Ministers speedily returned to Mandalay. So did most of the retainers after one little Chin maid had given some trouble by running up a tree and declining to come down, because Sūpăyá-lāt, whose temper misfortune may have sharpened, had smacked her.
The rapidity with which the conquest of the Burmese King was effected must always be a subject of astonishment. Many times in the previous wars Burmese soldiers had offered stout resistance, fighting fiercely behind stockades. That the martial spirit still survived was abundantly shown afterwards in the years of desultory fighting described in Sir Charles Crosthwaite’s classic history of the pacification of Burma. The truth is, the central Government was rotten at the core, corrupt and inefficient and singularly impecunious. The balance found in the Treasury at Mandalay was about £5,000, not a very large sum to finance a war. There was no organized Burmese army, with captains versed in the art of war, capable of meeting in the field disciplined troops under trained leaders. But the main cause of the downfall of the Burmese kingdom, with hardly a blow struck in its defence, was no doubt the speed with which preparations for the advance were made, and the skill, swiftness, and resolution with which General Prendergast directed the progress to Mandalay. If a little more time had been allowed to the Burmese, the ascent would have been more arduous, though not less effectual. The celerity with which the operations were carried out is probably paralleled in history only by the advance of the Balkan armies towards Constantinople.
While opposition to the main force was feeble and faint-hearted, at the outset of hostilities reprisals were taken on Englishmen employed in the forests or on the river. It was, indeed, only by the humanity or prudence of some local officials that any of these isolated Englishmen escaped. A Thandawzin[83] was sent to deal with Bombay-Burma men on the Chindwin. Four of them were barbarously murdered. The murderer was Thandawzin So Bôn, who disappeared immediately. I sought him diligently, but in vain, for nearly twenty-five years. If he still lives, this record of his name may yet bring to him the reward of his crime. Four other forest men were saved by the intervention of the Wun[84] of Mingin.
Upper Burma had long been the refuge of persons who had pressing reasons for leaving Lower Burma; in fact, as one departmental Report said, it was a “perfect Arcadia.” Not only thieves, robbers, dacoits, and murderers, but the bailiff who had lost at Komi the proceeds of Court sales, the Postmaster who was short in his collections, the clerk who had stolen witnesses’ subsistence money, all found an asylum across the border. Demands for extradition were made, but practically never with any effect. The Wun of Mingin was among many who felt it necessary to take measures for their security if, as seemed likely, Upper Burma came under British rule. Long years ago, this astute man had been Akunwun[85] of the rich district of Rangoon or Hanthawaddy. One morning, having packed on elephants the contents of the Treasury, some lakhs of rupees, he fled with his plunder across the frontier. There, with his wicked prize, he was a man of importance, obtained office, and in process of time was placed in charge of Mingin on the Chindwin River. Partly moved by humanity, for he was as kindly a man as ever scooped a Treasury, partly, I surmise, because he was shrewd enough to foresee the downfall of the Burmese Government, he protected the Bombay-Burma men who fell into his hands, saved them from ill-usage and death, and made them over to a small British force which early visited the Chindwin. The Wun’s humanity was suitably rewarded. His delinquency was condoned and he became a My̆o-ôk. Though he was believed always to be tainted with the corrupt habits of Upper Burma, he served us moderately well. The fact that he had saved the lives of our countrymen was never forgotten and would have covered many sins. Finally, he died in his bed, up to the day of his death in receipt of a pension from Government. I knew very well both him and his wife, who had accompanied him in his flight from Rangoon. Naturally, we did not in plain words discuss that incident. But reference to early days was sometimes made, and the old lady admitted that the Wun had been frivolous and light-hearted in his youth. When I knew him, he was grave and reverend. This is not the only instance in which persons guilty of past offences in Lower Burma purged their guilt by good service in troubled times and were received back into Government employ. I found it convenient to keep in mind their histories.
Another case of the cruel treatment of Europeans was the seizure of a Flotilla steamer at Moda, between Mandalay and Bhamo, and the imprisonment and ill-treatment of crew and officers. Daily was Captain Redman led out as if to execution. He, too, escaped by some friendly intervention, or the hesitation of his captors to proceed to the last extremity. He was, however, very badly used. The two local officers responsible for these barbarities were brought down to Mandalay, fined and imprisoned, and publicly whipped by the Chief Commissioner’s order.