We escorted our guest to the steamer, and there bade farewell to our Chief and our friend.
Buddhist monks are the most influential and most respected class of the community. In passing it may be mentioned that there is no such person as a Buddhist priest. No one exercises any sacerdotal function or celebrates any Sacrament. The religious are not priests, but monks, a numerous and well-organized body, wielding indefinite but real authority. In every village at least one monk is found. In Mandalay, the typical Burmese city, they were numbered by thousands. Professed monks are bound by vows of chastity and poverty, and are subject to strict discipline. Wearing the yellow robe, the distinctive mark of their order, as morning comes round monks and novices from every monastery walk slowly through the streets, each bearing a bowl for the receipt of the offerings of the faithful. We must not call this vessel a “begging-bowl.” One of the many acts from which a monk is bound to abstain is asking for anything. Voluntary gifts are freely offered, and are received as a matter of course. The lives of monks are devoted to meditation, the practice of austerities, the study and exposition of the law, the instruction of youth. Every Burmese boy enters a monastery, stays for a longer or shorter period, and receives there the elements of secular learning. Also, much to his profit, he is instructed in religious and moral duties. Thus it happens that in Burma elementary education is widely spread. The proportion of literate persons is greater than in any country where education is not compulsory. It is rare to find a man who cannot at least read and write. Sometimes men profess to have forgotten these arts, but as a rule this is mere laziness. The influence of monks having remained undisturbed by foreign contact, five-and-twenty years ago sound education in the vernacular was more common in Upper Burma than in the rest of the Province. In my own Court in Mandalay, in comparatively early days, a Lower Burman clerk was stumbling over the reading of a document. A bystander, apparently a plain man, offered his services. Borrowing a pair of spectacles from his neighbour, he read the crabbed text with fluency and accuracy. The incident does not prove, but it illustrates, my argument.
Apart from the instruction of youth and the exposition of the law, monks are not supposed to take an interest in mundane affairs. Their aloofness has been exaggerated. In a country village, for example, the monk was obviously the most learned and disinterested, very likely the most intelligent, person. Inevitably he was sought as the arbitrator of disputes. That monks often acted in that capacity, I have found abundant evidence in old documents produced before me in court. Some of these went back a hundred years, when the country was quite free from foreign influence, and cannot be regarded as indicating degeneracy of the monastic order. Again, it has been said that the authority of monks depended solely on their personal qualities and religious character, that it had no secular sanction. As regards Upper Burma in the King’s time, nothing can be farther from the truth. Buddhist ecclesiastics relied on the arm of flesh. The King and his officers promptly and effectually enforced the commands of the hierarchy. Laymen were severely punished for ecclesiastical offences, and recalcitrant monks were imprisoned within the precincts of a pagoda, or compelled to do acts of penance. In early days in Mandalay one Deputy Commissioner essayed to maintain the ancient rule, and to give effect to monastic sentences. Unfortunately this good practice could not last. Now the hierarchy complain that, as Government will not enforce discipline, authority is waning, with disastrous results. The most that the Courts have found possible is to give effect to decisions of duly constituted religious tribunals in disputes of a civil nature between members of the order. Another instance of the interference of monks in worldly affairs, their almost invariable complicity in political intrigues, has been already mentioned. The Kinwun Mingyi himself emerged from a monastery to take part in the rebellion which placed Mindôn Min on the throne.
On the whole, in Upper Burma as we found it, the monks constituted a respectable body, including many learned and devout persons. I do not pretend that all were immaculate. Doubtless there were idle and dissolute monks. One hears from Burmans themselves of some who were monks by day and who at night threw off the yellow robe and ranged the town. Some of them dabbled in magic and alchemy. A really pious monk could hardly become a dacoit chief. But the great majority honestly lived up to their profession. The fact that the vows were not irrevocable tended to prevent the occurrence of scandals sometimes incident to monastic life. Complete liberty of renunciation lessened temptation to break the vows. It was always open to a monk to return to the world and, as it was phrased, again to become a man. Even if a shadow of discredit attached to a monk who had come out (twet), it was faint and transitory. In a land where life is simple and much concealment impossible, no body of men who lived unworthily could retain the respect of all classes. Every layman, from the King downwards, treated monks as superior beings. I have seen the Kinwun Mingyi lean out of his carriage and pay the graceful Burmese reverence[180] to a humble passing monk.
In Upper Burma the fine flower of Buddhism flourished. The monastic system was elaborately organized. At the head was the Thathanabaing; under him were Gaing-ôks, Gaingdauks, and Taik-ôks,[181] in due succession and subordination. The Thathanabaing was not, as some suppose, elected; he was appointed by the King. In former days his authority prevailed throughout Burma. As by degrees fragments of the country became British territory, the Thathanabaing’s jurisdiction naturally shrank, being restricted to the King’s dominions. Even if for no other reason, it was impossible for British officers to recognize in Lower Burma the authority of a monk who lived in Ava or Mandalay, and owed his power and appointment to a foreign monarch. Consequently the bonds of discipline were relaxed. Monks and laity in Lower Burma were as sheep without a shepherd. Heresies and schisms rent the Buddhist Church. The influence of monks waned perceptibly. Buddhism was and is still a living creed in Lower Burma. But it cannot be pretended that it is so vital and beneficent a force as even now in the Upper districts. Similarly, as already indicated, monastic education declined. The absence of ecclesiastical control has caused some deterioration of character in Lower Burma.
The policy of the Government of India has always been to observe strict neutrality in religious matters, to interest itself in no form of creed. All education directed by Government has been rigidly secular. It is now felt by many that this policy, however well-intentioned, was mistaken, that in allowing, or even encouraging education to be exclusively secular, Government has done much to sap the foundations of morality and loyalty, to undermine the basis of character. Probably the right course would have been not to stand aloof from the divers creeds of the Empire, but to take an active interest in all, and to see that each had fair play and encouragement. For a Christian Government to do this would have been difficult; most likely the attempt would not have been tolerated by public opinion at home. So far as India is concerned, the tiresome thing about public opinion in England is that, where interest might be beneficial, it cannot be roused; while in some vital matter in which only the man on the spot has materials for judging, the British public, or its spokesmen, insist on interfering. (How pleasant would it be, for instance, to see on newspaper posters such legends as—
ANOTHER WRONG TO BURMA.
BURMA’S SAD FINANCIAL STATE.
How unlikely we are to see them!) Perhaps of the two mistakes lack of interest is the less mischievous. Recently we have made a step in advance. Religious teaching in State schools has been permitted; all pupils may receive instruction in the creeds which they profess.
Sir Charles Bernard recognized the value of monastic influence, and did his best to enlist it on the side of law and order. It was particularly desirable that monks should be discouraged from taking part in political agitation. It was also hoped that the monastic system of education might be maintained and strengthened in sympathy with our own Education Department. At the time of the annexation the Thathanabaing was a weak but well-meaning person who had been King Thebaw’s tutor. The Chief Commissioner interviewed him in person and essayed to excite his enthusiasm for the new Government. In recognition of the part taken by monks in secular education, monthly gifts of rice were sent to the Thathanabaing and his trusted counsellors, the Pă-kán and Hladwe Sadaws. The Thathanabaing was induced to visit Rangoon with a view to the extension of his authority over Lower Burma. Government provided for his journey, which was made in some state with a long train of monks. He was received with rapture at Prome and in Rangoon; and a rest-house (zayat) for him and his successors was built on the slope of the Shwe Dagôn Pagoda. The effort was ineffectual. Neither that Thathanabaing nor his successors have exercised any power in Lower Burma, which still remains in a state of reprobation. Another attempt was made to conciliate Buddhist sympathy. Many monasteries and other religious buildings had been used by troops and others for Government purposes, and some damage had been done. All over the country monks had hospitably received and entertained our officers, and had raised no objection to the necessary temporary use of sacred buildings. As a compensation for disturbance and damage, a substantial sum of money was disbursed to a large number of monks. As monks may not touch gold or silver, the actual coins were placed in the hands of lay followers. These well-meant efforts had, I fear, no appreciable effect. The Thathanabaing had not the authority, even if he had the will, to control and direct his monks by moral force alone. Monks were civil to British officers, often glad to have the protection of a military post; but they did not go out of their way to preach submission to an heretical Government. It is hardly to be expected that they would do so.
After this Thathanabaing had condescended to return, as runs the Burmese euphemism for the death of a monk, it was some years before Government made up its mind as to the appointment of a successor. No one could lawfully be Thathanabaing unless appointed by the ruling power. But it was contrary to established principle for Government to appoint a Buddhist ecclesiastic. For some years the monastic world was given up to anarchy. At last it was decided that, though Government could not appoint, it might recognize; and though it could not give material aid, it might lend moral support. To ascertain the monk who would be generally acceptable, an election was held. This device has now been adopted on two or three occasions, so that people have begun to believe that it was always customary. The last two holders of the office have been formally recognized by the Government of Burma; the present Thathanabaing received a sanad[182] from the Lieutenant-Governor. He is a monk of learning, and particular suavity of manner and disposition. While maintaining due reserve and dignity, he has always been on excellent terms with Government and its officers. He has loyally exercised his influence on the side of law and order, and has tried to smooth the path of the Education Department, anxious to link the monastic with the Government system. Without posing as liberal or progressive, he has been wise and conciliatory. In later years my personal relations with the Thathanabaing were extremely cordial. Once he honoured me by his presence at a garden-party in Mandalay. This was, I think, an unprecedented occasion. On the lovely lawn fringing the moat he sat, surrounded by yellow-robed counsellors, the centre of a picturesque circle, watched with reverence by Burmese, with respectful interest by European and Indian, guests. Among my most treasured possessions is a rosary which he sent me, with a charming farewell letter, when I left the Province.
The order of Buddhist nuns must not be forgotten. They are comparatively few in number, and, though regarded with respect, do not seem to exercise special influence. Living sometimes in seclusion, sometimes in communities, they occupy no prominent place. Their lives are spent in meditation and devotion, free from secular cares. Often when stricken by a great sorrow a woman becomes a nun, and adheres to her profession for the rest of her life. Innocent, harmless ladies, if they are not active in good works their passive piety is a gracious example. A nun whom you meet in the road has a pleasing habit of invoking a blessing as you pass.
Buddhism as professed by the Burmese is of a high and pure type. In Burma, and in Burma alone throughout India,[183] Buddhism is a vital force. The suggestion that religion is in danger, or that monks have been ill-used, is the surest way to rouse popular feeling. The ethics of Buddhism are as lofty and inspiring as those of any faith in the world. Obviously Burmans do not invariably shape their lives in strict accordance with the precepts of the law. But in spite of failings and shortcomings, the spiritual and moral force of their religion sheds a penetrating influence on national life and character. Though its every rule may be daily violated, Buddhism does tend to make Burmans humane, tolerant, kind-hearted, charitable. All Burmans are well-grounded in the mysteries of their faith. When they sin, they sin against light and conscience. In all but the most abandoned, traces of the good influence of their religion are evident. One very pleasing effect is extension of benevolence in theory always, in practice often, to every sentient being. Consider, for instance, the kindly attitude of Burmans to lower animals. From the plump bullocks which draw the primitive, creaking[184] carts of the country to the pariah dogs which swarm in every village, or the pigs which used to scavenge the streets of Mandalay (whose chase, not by the Burmese, was the only form of pig-sticking known in Burma), all are objects of compassion and care. The Burman’s robust bullocks, nourished on their mothers’ milk, contrast pleasingly with the lean kine of the Indian. You will even see a pious Burman save a deadly snake from destruction, and set it loose in a place of security. This, perhaps, is an extreme instance of logical regard for principle.
Signs of the extent to which religion forms part of everyday life strike the most casual observer. The country is full of pagodas, monasteries, theins,[185] images of the Buddha, zayats. Pagodas vary in size from the stately Shwe Dagôn to the humble fane on the outskirts of a village. It may be worth while to explain that a pagoda is not a temple in which worshippers pay their devotions. It is a solid structure, often built over sacred relics, of varying type, the most prevalent being that of the great pagoda at Rangoon. Some pagodas are richly gilded, others merely whitewashed. Each is crowned with a ti, if possible studded with jewels. The very topmost pinnacle is often an inverted soda-water bottle, a primitive shield against lightning. Monks must have monasteries. These also differ in glory, from the great buildings, richly ornamented with carving covered with gold, founded by the King or Queen or some high official, which adorn the royal city, to the mat and thatched hut which shelters the poor village monk. A Burman who amasses wealth, the farmer who has an abundant harvest and good prices, the merchant whose venture has been successful, the rich broker or money-lender, does not hoard his gains. He spends them on jewels for his wife and daughters, on silks for these ladies and himself, on building a monastery, or a pagoda, a zayat, incidentally on a pwè[186] or an ahlu.[187] The builder of a pagoda is a Paya-taga, of a monastery a Kyaung-taga, honorific titles in familiar use, as common as the title of Colonel is said to be in the United States. Laymen are associated in religious observances. A monastery has a lay attendant, a Kappiya-taga, who makes it his business to see that the building is maintained and duly swept and garnished. Every eighth day is set apart by the pious for religious observances, for meditation, for visiting a pagoda, for attendance at a monastery to hear the Law expounded. Each year there is a long Lenten period (Wa), when abstinence and religious practices are enjoined on the faithful, when good Buddhists refrain from marrying, when monks remain secluded in their monasteries, undertaking no journeys. A monk reckons his monastic life by the number of Lents he has observed. All this sounds rather gloomy, and in theory Buddhism ought to have a depressing effect. It teaches the transitoriness and mutability of this world and of all human things. No personal God smiles on his worshippers or listens to their prayers. This life is an evil in itself, a period to be spent in the acquisition of merit, in preparation for the ascent to a higher plane. The goal of every man’s striving is the blessed rest of Nirvana (Neikban), a state, not of annihilation, but of rest for many ages from passion and all transitory disturbance. For even the rest of Nirvana is not eternal. After many æons, it may be, the unceasing round begins again. The practical effect of this austere creed is quite different. Nowhere is there a more gay and light-hearted people. To balance the days and months of abstinence, religious festivals are of frequent occurrence. Then the roads are crowded with cart-loads of merry holiday-makers. Pagoda platforms are filled with bright-clad, laughing throngs. Pwès and all national sports are celebrated. On every side are gaiety and good-humour, the basis of religion underlying all. It is not for me to attempt to explain these apparent inconsistencies.
The people in general soon made up their minds that there was no intention of interfering with their religion. And, in spite of isolated instances, the monks accepted the new order with resignation, if not with enthusiasm. The tolerant spirit of Buddhism pervades all classes. Strangers wander unmolested and without meeting scowling looks in the precincts of pagodas and holy places; they are welcome to explore the recesses of monasteries, observing only common politeness and decorum. You are not expected to take off your shoes on reaching the sacred limits of a pagoda or monastery. Ordinary courtesy doubtless impels you to remove your hat in a sacred building. It is not really correct to walk across the sleeping mat of a Sadaw,[188] as I saw done by a lady who should have known better. The Sadaw only laughed, recognizing that no offence was meant.
Pagodas and sacred images are left to the care of the people themselves, tempered by the benevolent patronage of the Archæological Survey. In too many cases these buildings and objects are left to the process of natural decay. It seems to be somewhat more meritorious to build a new shrine than to keep in repair an existing fabric. Probably the builder of a new pagoda, for instance, earns all the merit for himself, while a restorer shares it with the original founder. In the case of edifices of special sanctity or conspicuous antiquarian or architectural interest, arrangements have been made, at the instigation of Government, to vest the property and management in legally appointed trustees. The care and maintenance of sacred buildings and the due appropriation of pious offerings are thus assured. Not only for the Shwe Dagôn Pagoda and the Arakan Pagoda at Rangoon and Mandalay respectively, but for many shrines of less fame, trustees have been appointed. This is the best way of securing the preservation of religious buildings of inestimable interest.
One of the most striking personalities in modern Burmese Buddhism is the Ledi Sadaw. This remarkable man devoted some years of his life to travelling through the country preaching and exhorting. His passionate eloquence drew immense congregations. Wherever he went he was greeted by enraptured throngs. Men and women vied in adoration of this saintly personage, women loosing their hair and spreading it as a carpet for his holy feet. His fervour and fiery zeal effected real revivals, whether lasting or transitory I dare not say. Besides addressing public assemblies, he obtained leave to enter jails and preach reformation to the prisoners, apparently with good results.[189] In spite of the extraordinary enthusiasm which he inspired and the honours thrust upon him in his triumphal progress, he preserved unstained and flawless, simplicity and humility of character. We are not wont to regard with favour errant monks preaching here and there. Too often their exhortations have tended to sedition, their liberty has been a cloak for licence. Never for a moment did the Ledi Sadaw fall under a shadow of suspicion as to the purity of his motives and conduct, or the good intention of his pilgrimage. The ethical part of his sermons consisted of fervent denunciations of intemperance, drinking, gambling, opium-smoking, the pleasant vices most devastating among Burmans. In no way inspired by any Government officer, he did not hold aloof from the authorities, but desired to be on good terms with them. Speaking to Colonel Maxwell,[190] who more than most of us won the intimate confidence of Burmans, in all simplicity he said:
“I am not sure that Government will approve my preaching. There will be much loss of revenue; for when I have finished, all liquor and opium shops will be closed for want of custom.”
With a clear conscience the Commissioner bade him go on and prosper, assuring him that Government would be well pleased if so desirable a result could be attained. The promised millennium has not yet arrived. While heartily approving the Sadaw, we did not think it expedient to make our approval conspicuous, lest plausibly, though falsely, the suggestion might be made that he was an agent of the Asoya.[191] A travelling set of the Buddhist scriptures was the only mark of Government’s appreciation. I had the privilege of one interview with this extraordinary man. What chiefly impressed me was his weary expression, as though the working of the fiery spirit had worn out the frail tenement of the body. I am glad to hear that the Sadaw still lives, and that his preaching days are not over.
One of the last incidents of my residence in Burma may fitly conclude this discursive chapter. Early in 1910 we were privileged to receive what are believed to be genuine relics of the Buddha. They were discovered by the Archæological Survey near Peshawar. Their authenticity has, I believe, been doubted. I hope I am not, to use the happy phrase of an Irish friend, more prone than most men to swallow mares’-nests. But to me the evidence of the genuine character of the relics seems reasonably convincing. It was my fortunate lot to be instrumental in securing the despatch of these precious remains to Burma, where alone, as I have said, the pure spirit of Buddhism still reigns; and to be present when, with due solemnity, at Government House in Calcutta, the Viceroy graciously entrusted the casket and its priceless contents to a deputation sent from Burma to receive them. The relics were welcomed in Rangoon with demonstrations of pious enthusiasm, and brought by a long procession to the Shwe Dagôn Pagoda, where, for some days, they were exhibited for the edification of the faithful. Thence they were taken to Mandalay and placed in the care of the elders of the Arakan Pagoda till a separate suitable shrine can be erected in custody of a duly constituted trust.
Mr. C. H. T. Crosthwaite, soon afterwards Sir Charles Crosthwaite, K.C.S.I., succeeded Sir Charles Bernard. He came enjoying the confidence of the Viceroy, and in just expectation of the support of the Government of India. Taking in hand at once the settlement of the country, in the next four years he devoted his remarkable administrative genius to the completion of the task. I cannot becomingly express in full my humble appreciation and admiration of Sir Charles Crosthwaite and the great work which he accomplished in Burma. I hope it is not presumptuous of me to say that as an administrator he ranks in the very highest class of Indian Statesmen, and is at this moment by far the most distinguished member of our Service. Never sparing himself, in those eventful years he initiated, guided, directed, controlled. In his officers he inspired enthusiasm; we would have fallen in harness to serve him or win his approval. We were always sure of strong and efficient support, and had no fear, if things went wrong, of being thrown to the dogs. Sir Charles Crosthwaite came to a land still torn by internal strife; he left it a peaceful and prosperous Province. I speak of what I know, for from first to last it was my privilege to work immediately under him, to see the pulse of the machine. Let those who wish to understand turn to the book[192] wherein the story of the pacification is modestly told by the chief actor in the drama.
Early in March, 1887, the Chief Commissioner came to Mandalay, retaining for a short time the separate Secretariat for Upper Burma. Wisely distrusting the sanitary conditions of the palace, he took up his quarters in a small house built on the city wall, intended as the residence of a military police officer. It consisted of two or three rooms under one of the pyathats.[193] On the first evening after the Chief Commissioner’s arrival we waited some time for dinner, as the roof of the cook-room was blown off by a sudden gale. Since those days the building has expanded, and has become a respectable Government House. Thanks to the good taste of the Chief Engineer, Mr. H. J. Richard, Burmese style has been preserved. The pyathat is the centre of a range of buildings which might be a monastery or a section of the Palace. Thus the house is a picturesque feature in the landscape, not an outrage. With the moat and a stretch of green lawn on one side, and pretty gardens on the other, commanding a fine view of Mandalay Hill and the rugged western hillocks, it has every æsthetic quality. It may be whispered that it is more beautiful to see than comfortable to inhabit.
Sir Charles Crosthwaite’s first tour was undertaken for the purpose of visiting the Ruby Mines district, then recently occupied. A military station had been established on a lofty, somewhat bleak plateau, and honoured with the name of Bernardmy̆o. The civil headquarters were at Mogôk, the centre of the ruby mines. Reaching Ky̆an-hny̆at by steamer, we rode to Sagadaung, at the foot of the hills, breakfasting midway with Mr. R. C. Stevenson,[194] the subdivisional officer. The Chief Commissioner’s party consisted of the Personal Assistant[195] and myself. At Sagadaung it was found that all the servants, panic-stricken at the thought of plunging into savage wilds, had refused to leave the steamer. The kit and stores had come on, but the only servants with us were my Madrasi boy and a few chapràsis.[196] The Personal Assistant was equal to the occasion. He invited all the officers of the Station to dine with the Chief Commissioner, from whom the state of affairs was concealed. “And,” said he, “as our men are rather tired, will you let your cooks help to get dinner ready?” These assistants he supplied with stores and necessaries, and dinner was successfully achieved. Next morning we rode up the hill to Bernardmy̆o, where we were kindly made honorary members of the mess and lodged as handsomely as Service conditions allowed. I slept in a commissariat godown,[197] with the wind, cold even in April, whistling through the openings in the boarded floor. After a day or two we rode on to Mogôk, through lovely evergreen forest which still shades the bridle-path. There we were guests of the Deputy Commissioner, the late Mr. G. M. S. Carter, who cherished us till we reached the river and our steamer once more. Never, I ween, not even in the Spartan days of Sir Arthur Phayre, did a Chief Commissioner make an official tour in his Province with only a third of a boy and a stray chapràsi or two as bearer,[198] khitmagar,[199] and cook.
The Ruby Mines Company was still in embryo, but the syndicate out of which it was evolved had established a footing, and Mr. F. Atlay, who still manages its affairs, was already installed. The quest for rubies was prosecuted by the hereditary miners, who worked by primitive native methods. In the King’s time rubies were, naturally, a royal monopoly, and any stone of exceptional value was a royal perquisite. The most illustrious stone on record was called, after its finder, Chin Nga Mauk. The lucky man himself took it to the Palace, and was privileged to lay it at the King’s feet. As a reward he was allowed to take away a cart-load of whatever he liked from the Palace. The legend of the discovery of the mines may be told. Passing through a desolate, unpeopled land, a wayfarer saw a vulture swoop from a solitary rock and pick up a piece of, as it seemed to wayfarer and apparently to vulture, raw red flesh. Surprised at such a phenomenon in a waste place, the traveller investigated, and found the earth strewn with lovely glittering red stones, thenceforth known as the rubies of commerce. The truth of the story is proved by the existence to this day of the rock on which the vulture perched. Times have changed, and rubies are no longer picked up on the surface. Nor are they found embedded in the stone walls of Aladdin’s caves. They are extracted by washing from ruby-bearing earth (by̆ôn), which is borne in trucks to the Company’s washing sheds. Each truck contains, I suppose, about twelve cubic feet of earth; the average value is about one shilling. But any load may produce a stone worth a King’s ransom. Besides the scientific operations of the company, mining by native methods is still practised. The rights of hereditary miners are preserved. They pursue the quest after the manner of their fathers, on payment of a moderate licence-fee. The very poor, mostly women, may glean in the beds of streams without any restriction. Ruby-mining was a profitable business, with a pleasing element of chance. Some lucky miners amassed large fortunes. Even the common people were affluent. The smallest coin current in the bazaar was a silver two-anna (2d.) piece. Coppers were unknown. In later days the Chief Commissioner or Lieutenant-Governor’s receptions at Mogôk were ceremonies of much splendour. Followed by scores of mounted men who came to meet him, he rode through the town under triumphal arches gleaming with silken banners, past lines of cheering spectators, groups of dancers, and cymbal-clashing musickers, while pretty, shy Shan girls peeped from the casements. An incident of one of these visits, though it has nothing to do with rubies or ceremonious receptions, may be recorded by way of comic relief. The scene was the parade-ground; the occasion, an inspection of the Military Police Battalion; the time, the end of summer. The ground was wet and slippery from an early unexpected shower. After the accustomed evolutions, the Commandant, an exceptionally smart, well-turned-out officer, came galloping up to the Lieutenant-Governor, and as he essayed to pull up within a yard of that august personage his pony slipped and deposited him in the mud at his feet. Nowise abashed, he rose, gravely saluted: “Would you like to see anything else, sir?” “No, thank you,” was the equally grave reply. And the incident closed, to their credit, be it told, not one of the staff moving a muscle. As the story goes, they waited to laugh till they got home.
On our return from the first visit, our baggage borne on mules, we rode to Thabeik-kyin along a mule-track following approximately the line of the present road. The narrow path wound through and about the hills, often with a yawning precipice on one hand, a wall of rock on the other. But that the road is broad and smooth, in many respects it resembles the old path. Ponies have still a horrid habit of hugging the cliff’s edge, and one rides with a leg suspended over the abyss. To meet a train of pack-bullocks charging down the pass is a trying experience. So, too, is the ascent in a motor-car with a driver learning his work. Green forest covers the hillsides and luxuriates in the valleys, brilliant with many-coloured blooms. The cicala fills the open spaces with sound, so great a noise by so small a body. It was then all new and full of interest. The beauty of the landscape charmed every step of the march. Our guide was a handsome ruffian, Bo Aw, as picturesque as the scene, who rode ahead in Shan dress, his flapping straw hat decked with gay streamers. Afterwards he returned to the life of a dacoit, and, I fear, came to a bad end.
Soon after this, the Mandalay Secretariat ceased to exist as a separate branch, one Secretariat, with a Chief Secretary, Secretary, Junior Secretary, and Assistant Secretary, being constituted in Rangoon for the whole Province. Mr. Symes became Chief Secretary, but, worn out by many labours, went on leave, Mr. Donald Smeaton[200] coming from India to act for him. I became Secretary, and Mr. C. G. Bayne, Junior Secretary. The anomalous post of Special Commissioner was abolished, Mr. Hodgkinson going to Moulmein as Commissioner. Mr. Smeaton was not new to the Province. Some years before he had come to Burma to fill the newly created office of Revenue Secretary and Director of Agriculture. In that capacity he had devised and organized the Supplementary Survey system, afterwards called the Land Records Department. This was, I believe, an entirely original scheme, of which the design was to keep land records and maps up to date, year by year, so as to obviate the labour of re-survey whenever a Settlement had to be revised. In theory the plan was admirable; its practical success has not been perfect, partly, I think, because the establishment was inadequate. Mr. Smeaton also organized and set to work the first regular Settlement Parties in Burma. From 1887 onwards he served as Chief Secretary, Commissioner, and Financial Commissioner, failing, however, in the end to attain the high office for which his rare abilities seemed to designate him. The Chief Secretary took over the political department, and for a time my association with the most interesting part of the administration was severed. I had plenty to do in my own branches.
The Secretary was in charge of State prisoners, a few of whom, members of the late reigning family of Delhi, still survived. The ex-King, Bahadur Shah, who had been tried and sentenced to death for his share in the massacre of English men and women, had been spared the extreme penalty and sent to Rangoon, where he died in exile. His widow, the Begam Zinath Mahal, was in Rangoon in my charge. She and her daughter-in-law were of such exalted rank that they were not parda-nashín[201] to English officers. More than once I saw the old Begam who, thirty years before, had played so lurid a part in the Mutiny. Though now of advanced age, she retained traces of great beauty and was specially proud of her finely shaped, delicate hands. Her beauty was of the Pit, aquiline, dark, menacing. Her son, Prince Jăwán Băkht (P. J. Băkht, as he used quaintly to style himself on his visiting cards), the direct representative of the Moguls, lived in Rangoon with his wife, Shah Zamani Begam, of the race of Nadir Shah, the Persian Conqueror. Jăwán Băkht was not of specially marked character, amiable and harmless. His wife was a lady of charm and dignity, worthy of her lofty lineage. In her youth beautiful exceedingly, time had but little marred that lovely face. Poor lady, she was totally blind, but the disease which had darkened her sight left no disfigurement and hardly dimmed the lustre of her radiant eyes. She spoke the purest Urdu, in liquid tones sweeter than any I have ever heard in that graceful tongue. Beyond words pathetic it was to see and converse with this lady of a great family, keeping to the last the pride of her race and station, with every mark of a gentle and gracious disposition, reduced to comparative poverty, and sharing without a murmur the hard lot of the last scion of a fallen dynasty. Jăwán Băkht and Shah Zamani Begam have long been gathered to their fathers. Their son and daughter, Mirza Jamshíd Băkht and Ronak Begam, last of the line of Babar and Akbar and Aurangzíb, still live in Rangoon in receipt of miserable stipends. It is true that the decadent Moguls did not deserve well at our hands. Bahadur Shah and Zinath Mahal were treated even more leniently than they merited. But their surviving descendants are innocent of complicity in their crimes. Politically, they have never given the slightest trouble; Mohammedans seem hardly aware of their existence. Somewhat more generous treatment might be accorded them. Their pensions might be made sufficient to enable them to live in reasonable comfort.
Another interesting State pensioner, not a prisoner, was Prince Hassan, adopted son of Sultan Suleiman, leader of the Panthay[202] rebellion in Yunnan. When, finally overthrown, Suleiman died by his own hand to avoid capture, Hassan luckily was in Rangoon. There he stayed for the rest of his life, in receipt of an allowance from the Indian Government. Precisely on what grounds the grant to Hassan of a pension from Indian revenues was justified, I have never clearly understood. But all who knew him must be glad that any technical difficulties were overcome. Most charming and courteous of men, Hassan was in some respects the most attractive of the native notables of my acquaintance. He spent his time quietly in study, occasionally paying the Secretary a friendly visit. Ronak Begam became his wife. Some years later, after many wanderings and much tribulation, the Panthay wife of his youth, whom he had believed to be dead, appeared and resumed her natural position in his house. Ronak Begam, who could hardly be expected to take the second place, returned to her family. Hassan died some years ago. There are a good many Panthays in Upper Burma, principally in Mandalay, Bhamo, Mogôk, and the Shan States, sturdy men of stalwart stature and agreeable manners, assiduous traders, and good citizens. With several I was on friendly terms. My best friend among them one day brought his very aged and wrinkled mother to see me and bade her shake hands. The old dame obeyed, but pudically covered her hand with a kerchief before clasping mine.
For a few months in 1888 I acted as Commissioner of the Northern Division, the second officer to hold that appointment. Including the royal city, the Katha district on the borders of Wuntho, the Ruby Mines, the Kachin Hills, the China frontier, the division has always seemed the most interesting in the Province. To me who had been associated with Mandalay from the beginning, the position was specially attractive. The place was full of my Burmese friends by whom I was cordially welcomed. The appointment was temporary, though at first this was not the Chief Commissioner’s intention. As a somewhat maladroit acquaintance, meeting me at the club on my arrival, frankly said: “Of course, you will be here only till a senior man can be sent.” It was true, but he need not have rubbed it in.
Unlike most other officers, Commissioners draw a fixed monthly travelling allowance. It is therefore a point of honour with them to spend a good deal of time away from headquarters. In the Northern Division the cost of travelling was high, and the monthly allowance was never a source of profit. An early tour brought me to Bhamo, after being nearly swamped by a sudden squall. Signs of violence were still common. The Captain of the steamer assured me that quite lately he had seen corpses floating down the river “dreadfully emancipated.” At Bhamo I was shocked to find that the day before my arrival Bo Ti, one of the rebel leaders of Mogaung, had escaped from the primitive wooden jail. He was never recaptured. With him went a young Indian who was under trial for attempting to murder the Colonel of a native regiment. The Colonel I found convalescent. He was a hard man, and sepoys had often threatened to shoot him. As he was shaving one morning he felt a shock, and knew that he was wounded. Thinking that the threat had been carried out, the stout old man said to himself, “They shan’t know they have hit me,” and went on shaving. It was really his own servant, who from behind had slashed him with a sword. Owing to the Colonel’s grim determination not to let the sepoy know that he had scored, his assailant got in another blow. This is the story as I heard it. The Colonel, a bulky, muscular man, recovered from wounds which would probably have killed one of slighter build. It was doubtless by the agency of this young Indian that the guard of the jail was corrupted and the prisoner’s escape facilitated. He, too, made his way to the Kachin country, and was never caught. Vague rumours of his presence in the frontier fights of the next few years were current. I hope he did not have a very good time in the hills.
A story of Bhamo of later years may be told here. A military police sepoy ran “amuck,” as they say. Armed with a rifle and well supplied with ammunition, he took possession of a masonry house, and from a casement amused himself by shooting at anyone who came in sight. The house was duly surrounded by police, and the Deputy Commissioner and District Superintendent came down. It did not occur to them to summon infantry and guns from the neighbouring fort, or to fire volleys at the brick walls. The Superintendent, Mr. H. F. Hertz,[203] obtained a rough description of the interior of the house, and entered it from next door. Groping in the semi-darkness characteristic of native houses, he made his way to the room next to that held by the sepoy. Hearing a sound, the sepoy half-opened the door and thrust out his rifle. Pushing the rifle aside with one hand, Mr. Hertz shot the man dead with his revolver, receiving a slight wound in the encounter. This is the way these things are managed in Burma.
Bhamo was then the headquarters of the district which included the country bordering on China and Tibet, all the present Myitkyina district, Mogaung, and the Jade Mines. The column under Major C. H. E. Adamson, which visited Mogaung and the Jade Mines, had just returned, having secured the submission of Kansi La and Kansi Naung, the Kachin chiefs of the Jade Mines tract.[204] Soon afterwards occurred the assault on Mogaung, gallantly repulsed by Gurkha military police under Captain Hugh O’Donnell[205] and Mr. Lawrence Eliott. Close to China, from which it is separated by a range of hills, Bhamo is filled by a strange variety of races. Chinese, stalwart traders of Yunnan; Panthays, survivors of the great rebellion; Shans, Shan-Chinese, Shan-Burmans, Kachins of many divers tribes, give life and colour and speak a Babel of tongues in the bazaar. Driving along one of the roads leading out of the town, the traveller is impressed by a sign-post bearing the legend—
To China.
Not many miles away the peaks of the Kachin Hills rise in the eastern sky. Across these hills come caravans[206] from T’Êngyüeh (Momien) and Manwaing, in those days paying toll to the Kachins for leave to pass. Through these hills marched the ill-fated Margary before he attempted his fatal return journey. Through them in later days, with happier omens, walked Dr. Morrison at the end of his adventurous pilgrimage. A few miles below the town of Bhamo the Irrawaddy runs through a narrow, rock-bound gorge known as the Second Defile. Conspicuous on the right bank looms the tall Elephant Rock, crowned by a small golden pagoda. I have had the rare experience of passing through the defile by the light of the full moon. The silver light on the towering crags, the silence and the solitude, created an effect full of mystery and charm. Emerging from the defile, we reach the town of Shwegu, whence, gazing on the sunset painting with gorgeous colours the western hills, one realizes “the incomparable pomp of eve.” Above Bhamo the river pierces a still more gloomy, precipitous, whirlpool-haunted gorge, the First Defile. In the dry months, from November to April, this defile is navigable by launches, and with reasonable care the passage can be made without risk. In the rains it is closed to all traffic except that of country boats and timber rafts. Once, long ago, two gallant officers came through in a launch as late as May. They had no wish to repeat the experiment. When in full flood, to traverse the defile even in a boat is an adventure requiring nerve and skill. On the upward course the boat is towed laboriously for many weary days. If the rope slips, the work of days may be lost in a few minutes. Down-stream the journey is far more rapid and even more hazardous. I do not think any British officer has been drowned in the defile, but several of my friends have lost their baggage. At least one launch lies in its fathomless depths. At any time the passage through the defile is full of interest and excitement. Nothing can surpass the wild beauty of its winding, rock-bound course. Here, in mid-stream, a sharp boulder has to be shunned; there careful steering is needed lest the vessel be spun round in a whirlpool; now we seem to be driving straight against a wall of stone. To leave Burma without traversing the First Defile is to miss one of the sights of the world.
Another tour led me across the Shwebo district, then in the Northern Division, where my old friend Mr. B. K. S. MacDermott was in charge. The township officer was Maung Tun, K.S.M., afterwards Extra Assistant Commissioner, a local officer of remarkable ability and of proved courage and loyalty. His father, Bo Pyin, had been Wun of Shwebo, and had retired at an advanced age. He is the man already mentioned who shocked his pious serious-minded son by retaining his passion for the chase.
Here is the city of Alaungpaya; here Mindôn Min raised the standard of revolt against his brother. Shwebo was always a turbulent district, the seed-bed of sedition; it retained that character long after the annexation. At this time it was fairly quiet; we rode through it with a moderate escort. As we left the town we saw approaching a long line of Burmans, in carts and on foot, men, women, and children. “All these people,” said the Deputy Commissioner with pride, “are coming in to my new bazaar.” On inquiry, we ascertained that they were really all coming in to be vaccinated. This is an example of the good sense and lack of prejudice so often found among Burmans. Years before, the people of Pantanaw had begged for a vaccinator. If proper facilities were provided, the whole population of Burma could be vaccinated without recourse to compulsion. Only the inefficiency and corruption of an underpaid staff and the untrustworthy quality of the lymph have retarded this desirable consummation. I am glad to say that these defects have now been, or are in process of being, remedied.
From Shwebo we crossed the Katha district and came to Kawlin on the verge of the Shan State of Wuntho.[207] This State, inconveniently situated in the midst of regularly administered districts, was left under its native chief till the year 1891. Shortly before the annexation the Sawbwa, a capable truculent man, had been transferred as Wun to Mogaung for the purpose of suppressing a Kachin rising. He accomplished the task with devastating completeness. In Wuntho he was succeeded by his son, a timid creature quite unlike the savage swashbuckler who begot him. Vain efforts had been made to induce the young chief to meet our officers, Mr. Burgess himself and the Kinwun Mingyi having visited Wuntho for the purpose without success. Once the Sawbwa did meet Mr. E. P. Cloney, Extra Assistant Commissioner. The issue was unfortunate. At the conference, owing to a misunderstanding, a tumult arose and the Shan retainers drew their swords. Mr. Cloney’s life would have been sacrificed but for the presence of mind of the Sawbwa, who clasped him in his arms and shielded him from attack. This is the solitary occasion on which the Sawbwa showed any sign of courage or resolution. Only once again he met a British officer, Mr. H. F. P. Hall,[208] afterwards Assistant Commissioner. Though I went to Wuntho with only half a dozen sowars, the Sawbwa declined the meeting and bolted to his remote fortress at Pinlebu. When, owing to the survey of the projected railway-line, the long-existing tension became acute, the Sawbwa, after wantonly attacking the adjacent districts, fled with his father to China. The old man is dead. The son survives in exile in Yunnan, having long ceased to be an object of apprehension or of interest to the Burma Government. The State of Wuntho is merged in the Katha district.
From August, 1888, till the end of 1890, I acted as Chief Secretary, Mr. C. G. Bayne being Secretary, and in succession Mr. A. S. Fleming, Mr. F. C. Gates,[209] and Mr. D. H. R. Twomey,[210] Junior (or Under) Secretary. These were years of abnormal stress in the office, which was still undermanned. The appointment of Mr. Fryer to be Financial Commissioner afforded us some relief. But though a good deal of his work was done in direct communication with the Chief Commissioner, part of the revenue business necessarily was transacted by the Secretariat. These were my really strenuous years. The practice of dictation to shorthand writers was not yet in vogue; I have never acquired the habit. Day after day, Sundays included, I did my spell of work in office and then wrote on far into the night at home, kept awake by coffee and protected from mosquitoes by Burman cheroots. Six hours of sleep sufficed. Though I wrote rapidly, I was not a quick worker. I dare say other men would have done as much with less effort. Life in the Secretariat presented few incidents which seem worthy of record. The real work was being done in the districts, in the Shan States, in the Chin Hills.
These years witnessed the completion of the pacification and settlement of Upper Burma, and what may be called the resettlement of Lower Burma. The details of the work in Upper Burma have been described in Sir Charles Crosthwaite’s book.[211] The organization of the military and civil police was perfected by the administrative ability of General Stedman, the Inspector-General, who was a tower of strength to the Government. Dacoit bands were dispersed, their leaders captured or killed, the rank and file in many cases allowed to surrender and return to their homes on suitable terms. Admirable, unobtrusive work was done by military, civil, and police officers, who by degrees bore down opposition and broke the forces of disorder. The most potent instrument in the final establishment of settled administration was the village law planned by Sir Charles Crosthwaite himself. This invaluable enactment created the village as the unit of administration, and placed the village headman in a position of authority and responsibility. He became the local judge and magistrate, with limited but sufficient power to enforce his orders. As far as possible the office was made hereditary, but the people were consulted in the appointment. Henceforth the post, though not one of great emolument, instead of being avoided, was eagerly sought.[212] The village law did much more than elevate the headman. It enforced the joint responsibility of villagers for offences committed within their borders, for stolen property traced to the village tract. The Deputy Commissioner was legally empowered to require villages to be duly fenced. All able-bodied men were bound under penalties to turn out to resist any unlawful attack. Above all, subject to carefully devised safeguards, power was given to the local authorities to order the temporary removal of persons found to be in sympathy with outlaws. No measure was more efficacious than this to secure the destruction of dacoit gangs by depriving them of support and sustenance. These are among the most important provisions of the village law which has done more than gun and sword to assure permanent peace. The revenue system was formalized as far as our limited knowledge allowed on the lines of Burmese law and custom. Meanwhile, the border lands were not neglected. Of the Shan States some mention will be made presently. The Chins might have lived unmolested in their hills, but they could not give up their rooted habit of raiding villages in the plains. The plundering of peaceful hamlets, the carrying off of living captives and the heads of the slain, provoked inevitable reprisals. Happily the policy of slaying, burning, and scuttling was not adopted. After laborious operations, the Chins were thoroughly subjugated and disarmed. Military police posts were established in their midst. They are now peaceful and amenable to law. The names honourably associated with the arduous task of settling these rugged hills are those of Major F. D. Raikes, C.I.E., General Sir W. Penn Symons, Mr. B. S. Carey, C.I.E., Mr. D. Ross, Mr. D. J. C. Macnabb,[213] Captain F. M. Rundall,[214] Mr. E. O. Fowler, and Mr. H. N. Tuck. Here, too, Captain Le Quesne[215] won the Victoria Cross by gallantly tending a wounded officer under fire from a stockade. The Kachin Hills and the State of Wuntho alone remained for settlement in later years.
No detailed story of the restoration of order in Lower Burma has yet been given to the world; nor does it lie within the scheme of these personal reminiscences to supply the omission. The outbreak of disturbance at the end of 1885 has already been mentioned. For years crime continued to be rampant. A few figures may be given. In 1886 the number of dacoities was 2,183; in 1887, 1,387; in 1888, 695; in 1889, 332; in 1890, 181. Serious risings there were: one in Tavoy in 1888, quelled by Colonel Adamson and Mr. Twomey; one in Sandaway, sternly repressed by Mr. Bernard Houghton, who at the outset nearly fell a victim to the insurgents. But in the period now under reference it was not so much a question of dealing, as in Upper Burma, with organized resistance on a large scale as of suppressing countless small, isolated gangs. The strict enforcement of the Village Act, framed on the lines indicated above, and vigorous disarmament carried out in the face of ignorant and factious criticism, were among the most efficient means of restoring peace. The plan of placing a defined area in charge of a specially selected officer invested with large powers for the suppression of crime was tried with excellent effect. Pyuntazá, in Shwegyin, was reduced to order by Mr. Todd-Naylor, to whom the Chief Commissioner gave a free hand with abundant support. Boldest, most strenuous, most untiring of men, traversing vast distances with incredible speed on the scantiest fare, facing every danger and enduring every hardship, there, and soon afterwards in Tharrawaddy, Mr. Todd-Naylor earned great and well-merited renown. For the first, and so far the only, time in its history, Tharrawaddy was at rest. In every district solid work was done, and by degrees normal conditions were established.
An event which I recall with interest was the visit to Rangoon of the celebrated traveller, Mr. Colborne Baber, of the China Consular Service, deputed to Burma in connection with the proposed demarcation of the Chinese boundary. Baber was one of the elect of travellers. Not only did he make hazardous and scientifically important journeys, but he also had the gift of letters, so that his records have a place in literature. A man of genius, a born explorer, of various and versatile accomplishments, he was, I believe, a sinologist of distinction, and certainly a scholar of no mean attainment. Before proceeding to Bhamo to study the boundary question on the spot, he was our guest for some days in Rangoon. These are days of happy memory, made bright by his luminous and inspiring talk, his distinguished and attractive personality. He seemed to live principally on cigarettes, and cared too little for a body not physically strong. Early in 1890 he died at Bhamo, mainly from weakness caused by his own neglect of material comfort. His premature death was a loss to the State, and a lasting grief to his friends.
More than once in these two years I visited Mandalay in attendance on the Chief Commissioner, sometimes occupying my old quarters in the Palace, sometimes enjoying the hospitality of Government House. One trivial incident illustrates the state of the country even close to the capital of Upper Burma. Rather late one night a friend[216] called me out of my quarters to go to see a fire. Having seen as many fires as would satisfy the most morbid craving, I cannot think why this fire attracted me. However, we went. As usual, the scene was much farther off than we thought. Passing out of the city gate, we walked for some miles across the fields till we came at last to a village where houses were still blazing. It had been plundered and burnt by Bo To, the most prominent leader then afoot in the district. The police were there before us, and the dacoits had disappeared. As we were alone, armed only with walking-sticks, perhaps it was lucky that we did not arrive an hour or two sooner.
The last day of February, 1889, saw the formal opening of the railway from Toungoo to Mandalay. The occasion was celebrated with some pomp, Sir Charles Eliott,[217] K.C.S.I., Public Works Member, representing the Government of India. Later in the year, during the absence of Sir Charles Crosthwaite on privilege leave for three months, Mr. A. P. MacDonnell,[218] Home Secretary to the Government of India, acted as Chief Commissioner. Mr. MacDonnell was, of course, innocent of any knowledge of the country or the people. I doubt whether this brief interlude of administering a strange Province could have been a satisfactory experience to him. I am under the impression that the Chief Secretary’s work was materially increased.
At the end of 1889 Burma was honoured by the visit of His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor of Wales (the late Duke of Clarence), who spent some days in Rangoon and Mandalay. The Royal visit was highly appreciated by the Burmese, as well as by the European community, and was celebrated with much demonstration of genuine spontaneous loyalty. Chief of His Royal Highness’s staff was the late Sir Edward Bradford, whose high qualities it were superfluous to praise.