AMONG THE BURMANS
[Illustration: A TYPICAL SHAN]
[Illustration: (titlepage)]
Among the Burmans
A record of fifteen years
of work and its fruitage
By
HENRY PARK COCHRANE
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO
Fleming H. Revell Company
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
Copyright, 1904, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 63 Washington Street
Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 30 St. Mary Street
Preface
The aim of this book is to give a true picture of life and conditions
in Burma. Heathen religions, superstitions, and native customs
are described as seen in the daily life of the people. Concrete
illustrations are freely used to make the picture more vivid. Truth
is stronger than fiction. In matters of personal experience and
observation I have used the "Perpendicular Pronoun" as more direct
and graphic. In matters of history I have read nearly everything
available, and drawn my own conclusions, as others have done before
me. If interest in "The Land of Judson" is stimulated by reading this
little volume, its object will have been accomplished.
H. P. C.
Contents
I. FIRST EXPERIENCES 9
II. LIVING LIKE THE NATIVES 27
III. CUSTOMS OF THE BURMESE 37
IV. CHIEF RACES OF BURMA 70
V. BUDDHISM AS IT IS 113
VI. BURMA'S OUTCASTS 146
VII. A NATION IN TRANSITION 157
VIII. "BY ALL MEANS--SAVE SOME" 167
IX. "WITH PERSECUTIONS" 208
X. HEROES AND HEROINES 224
XI. PECULIAR EXPERIENCES 240
XII. OBSTACLES 250
XIII. WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT 265
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
A TYPICAL SHAN Title
RAW MATERIAL (KACHINS) 30
KACHINS SACRIFICING TO DEMONS 30
POUNDING RICE 40
DANCING GIRLS 48
TATTOOING 56
BUDDHIST SHRINES 78
BURMESE WOMAN WEAVING 90
WORSHIPERS 116
A KAREN FAMILY 128
BUDDHIST IDOL 128
THE LAST KING OF BURMA 158
GOVERNMENT HOUSE, RANGOON 164
HOW WE TRAVEL BY CART AND BOAT 172
TRANSPLANTING RICE 180
DORIAN SELLERS 180
PINEAPPLES AND JACKFRUIT 204
ELEPHANTS AT WORK 222
BAPTIST CHURCH, RANGOON 268
Among the Burmans
I
FIRST EXPERIENCES
The _Chanda_ was slowly making her way with the tide up the Rangoon
River. Two young missionaries, myself and wife, were leaning on the
rail, deeply interested in the scene before us. The rising sun,
sending its rays over the land, seemed to us a pledge of the Master's
presence in the work to which we had consecrated our lives. On every
hand were strange sights and sounds, strange scenery, strange craft,
strange people; everything far and near so unlike the old life that
we had left behind. But it was something more than new sights and
sounds that stirred in us the deep emotion expressed in moistened eye
and trembling lip. Thoughts were going back to the time when we heard
the call, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" And now that
we were about to enter upon the realization of that to which we had
so long looked forward, hearts too full for utterance, were stirred
with gratitude and praise. But not long were we permitted to indulge
in either retrospect or prospect. As the steamer drew near the dock
all was turmoil and excitement,--officers shouting their orders;
sailors dragging the great ropes into place; passengers getting their
luggage ready for quick removal; friends on ship and shore eagerly
seeking to recognize a familiar face; waving of handkerchiefs; sudden
exclamations when an acquaintance or loved one was recognized.
At last the gangplank is in place, and on they come,--officials,
coolies, business men, hotel-runners, representatives of many races,
and conditions, energy for once superseding rank; missionaries well to
the front to extend a welcome to the newcomers.
What a power there is in the hearty hand-shake and cordial
greeting! To the newcomer, who has everything to learn and much to
unlearn,--this warm reception by the veterans is a link to reconnect
him with the world from which he seemed to have been separated during
the long voyage; a bridge to span the gulf of his own inexperience; a
magic-rite of adoption into the great missionary family; a pledge of
fellowship and cooperation for all the years to come.
It was Sunday morning,--though few in that motley crowd either knew or
cared. Mohammedan, Hindu, Parsee, Buddhist, and "Christian" jostled
one another, each intent on his own affairs, and all combining to
make this the farthest possible extreme from a "day of holy rest."
Little wonder that this first Oriental Sunday was a distinct shock
to the new missionaries. They had yet to learn that on many such
Sundays they would long for the "Sabbath- and Sanctuary-privileges"
of the home-land. But soon it became evident that the missionaries at
least, were about the "Father's business," each hurrying away to be
in time for the morning service in his own department of mission-work
among many races. To the eye of one who has just landed in Rangoon
each individual in the throng of natives on the street seems to have
arrayed himself as fantastically as possible, or to have gone to
the other extreme and failed to array himself at all. But at these
Christian services one sees the natives classified according to race,
and learns to distinguish certain racial characteristics,--of feature,
costume, and custom. A congregation of Burmese is a beautiful sight,
their showy skirts, turbans, and scarfs presenting the appearance of a
flower garden in full bloom, but especially beautiful as a company of
precious souls turned from their idols to the "True and living God."
Among our first experiences was a warm appreciation of the kind
attempts on the part of the missionaries to initiate us, by means of
good advice, into life in the tropics. "Now _do_ be careful about
exposing yourself to this tropical sun. Remember, you are not in
America now."
"That solar tope of yours is not thick enough for one who is not used
to this climate." "Flannel next to the skin is absolutely necessary,
as a safeguard against malaria, dysentery, and other complaints so
common here." "Now dear brother and sister, you must look out and not
let your zeal run away with your judgment. Yankee hustle won't do in
Burma."
Dear souls, we thought, you mean well, but we are not subject to these
troubles of which you speak. Their warnings sink about as deep as the
remark of one of our party who ran down the gangplank just ahead of
us: "When you have been in the country as long as I have, etc.,"--an
old expression, now under the ban. A few months later we began to take
their advice. Experiences leading to such action will be described
further on. Two days afterwards we reached our mission station, just
as the sun was going down. While picking out our "luggage" (it was
baggage when it left America) we received our first impressions as to
the British Indian system of checking, or "booking," as it is called.
A luggage receipt given at the starting point, called for so many
pieces. Then we found that to each article was glued a patch of paper
on which its destination was marked, and also a number corresponding
to the number on the receipt. All well so far. The luggage clerk
seemed neither to know nor care, but left each passenger to claim his
own.
We noticed too that everything imaginable was allowed to be booked, a
certain number of _viss_ in weight being allowed free on each ticket.
To our observing eyes, each passenger's luggage indicated about how
long he had been in the country, or how much he had travelled.
Some evil spirit seems to possess the luggage clerk's assistant to
glue the label in a new place each time, cancelling other bookings
by tearing off loose corners of old labels. This custom is specially
trying to spirituality when applied to bicycles, the railroad glue
having such affinity for enamel that they stay or come off together.
Another thing that impressed us was the suddenness with which the
darkness of night came on, as if "darkness rather than light" reigned
over this heathen land, and could hardly wait for the usurping sun to
disappear behind the horizon. First impressions of our new home we
gained late that night, by the dim light of a lantern. Home, did I
say? As we peered through the shadows it did not strike us as being
a place that could ever, by any stretch of imagination, seem like
home. Bare, unpainted walls dingy with age; huge round posts, some
of them running up through the rooms; no furniture except a teak
bedstead, and a large round table so rickety that it actually bowed
to us when we stepped into the room; lizards crawling on walls and
ceiling,--interesting and harmless things, as we afterwards found,
but not specially attractive to a newcomer. Oh, no,--it was not
homesickness, only just lack of power to appreciate a good thing after
the weary experiences of our long journey. In the night I was roused
from sleep by hearing some one calling. Half awake, I was getting
out from under the mosquito net, when my wife remarked, "Better get
back into bed. It is only that _taukteh_, that Mrs. ---- told us
about." The taukteh is the "crowing," or "trout-spotted lizard." The
English call it the tuctoo, from the sound it makes. The Burmans call
it taukteh, for the same reason. Some declare that it says "doctor,
doctor," as plain as day. Alarming stories are told of this terrible
creature; how it loses its hold on the ceiling to alight in a lady's
hair, and that nothing short of removing scalp and all will dislodge
it. The worst thing we have known it to do was to wake the baby in the
dead of the night, when we had got fairly settled to sleep after hours
of sweltering. I have shot several for this unpardonable offense. The
taukteh's sudden call in the night causes some children to suffer much
from fright, though no harm is intended.
Our house was situated on a narrow strip of land with streets on three
sides, and school dormitory in the rear. Just across one street
was a native Police Guard, but we did not know what it was until
next morning. We had come into our possessions after dark, so knew
nothing of our environment. These were dacoit times. Disturbances were
frequent. Of course our ears had been filled with exciting stories of
dacoit atrocities. The incessant and unintelligible jabbering of the
Paunjabby policemen, sometimes sounding as though they were on the
verge of a fight, and the sharp call of the sentry as he challenged
passers-by were anything but conducive to sleep through that first
night in our mission bungalow.
The new missionary has many trying experiences while becoming
accustomed to the changed conditions of life in the tropics. Judging
from our own experience and observation, covering many years, it seems
utterly impossible for the returned missionary to transmit to the new
missionary, while yet in the home-land, anything like true conceptions
of the life upon which he is about to enter, and how to prepare for
it. Either the new missionary has theories of his own which he fondly
imagines never have been tried, or he considers himself so unlike
other mortals that rules of living, developed by long experience,
do not apply to one of his own peculiar physical make-up. But
whatever his attitude of mind towards the new life and work, the
fact remains that he has dropped down in the midst of conditions so
unlike anything in his past experience that he must learn to adapt
himself to life as he finds it. The first place to apply his gift of
adaptation is in the household. First experiences with native servants
are decidedly interesting, to say the least. Our cook "Naraswamy,"
"Sammy" for short,--came to us highly recommended, and neatly clothed.
We had not yet learned that the poorer the cook, the better his
recommendations (often borrowed from some other cook), and the neater
his clothing,--also borrowed for the purpose of securing a place, but
never seen after the first day or two.
One day when "Missis" was giving directions about the dinner she
called Sammy and said, "Sammy, how many eggs have you?" "Two egg,
missis." "Very well, you make a pudding the best you can, with the
two eggs." At dinner no pudding appeared. "Sammy, where is the
pudding?" Putting on a sorrowful look Sammy replied, "I done break
egg" (spreading out his hands to indicate the two eggs), "one got
child, one got child." When Sammy felt fairly sure of keeping his
place, his two little boys began to spend much of their time in and
around the cook house. One of our first rules was that no child should
be allowed to go naked on the mission compound. These two dusky
youngsters had not a thread of clothing. Sammy was called up and
instructed that if his children were coming to the mission premises,
they must be properly clothed, at the same time presenting him with
a suit for one child. The next day they came again, with smiles of
satisfaction, one wearing the trousers, the other the jacket. Many
of these Madrassi cooks are professing Christians, merely to secure
a place in a missionary family. A small minority are Christians in
fact. But whether a heathen cook sneaks off with a stuffed turban, or
a professed Christian appropriates our food quietly humming "I love to
steal,----" the resulting loss to commissariat and spirituality is the
same.
Madrassi cooks, almost without exception, are dishonest. They will
jealously guard "Master's" property against the depredations of all
comers, but help themselves to a liberal commission from the daily
Bazar money,--and catch them if you can. This has been their custom
for many generations, and is their right, from their point of view.
When engaging a cook it may as well be kept in mind that his pay is so
much a month, and ----. He will fill out the blank to suit himself.
Take his Bazar-account every day, and make him show the articles
charged for, but do not congratulate yourself that he has made nothing
by the transaction. And yet his prices may be quite as low as his
employer could get. Find fault with the quality of the meat, and
he will bring a better article, but short weight. A stranger might
conjecture that the meat was selected for its wearing qualities, as
one would buy leather; or that they had heard of the mummified beef
found with one of the Pharaohs, and decided that only such was kingly
food.
The cook is supposed to board himself. He does, and all his family
connections. Just how he does it may never be known, but "Master" pays
the bill, in "cash or kind." Bengalee cooks are much more desirable,
but hard to get. Mrs. Judson's testimony to the faithfulness of her
Bengalee cook may well be repeated here.
"I just reached Aungpenla when my strength seemed entirely exhausted.
The good native cook came out to help me into the house; but so
altered and emaciated was my appearance that the poor fellow burst
into tears at the first sight. I crawled on to the mat in the
little room, to which I was confined for more than two months, and
never perfectly recovered until I came to the English camp. At this
period, when I was unable to take care of myself, or look after Mr.
Judson, we must both have died had it not been for the faithful and
affectionate care of our Bengalee cook. A common Bengalee cook will do
nothing but the simple business of cooking; but he seemed to forget
caste, and almost all his own wants in his efforts to serve us, ...
I have frequently known him not to taste food until near night, in
consequence of having to go so far for wood and water, and in order to
have Mr. Judson's dinner ready at the usual hour. He never complained,
never asked for his wages, and never for a moment hesitated to go
anywhere, or perform any act that we required."
The dhoby (washerman) is always a source of much distraction. He takes
away the soiled linen on Monday, _promising_ to bring it back on
Saturday; carries it to the riverside, stands in the water facing the
shore, pounds it out on a flat stone with swinging blows, and,--brings
back what is left. Garments worn perhaps but once, are found on
spreading out, to be spoiled by long rents or mildew. Socks that have
been filled with sand in order to strike a harder blow, still retain
enough sand to cause much discomfort. One or two pieces are missing
altogether. He promises to bring them the next time. In the meantime
he has probably hired them out to some person of mixed blood and
principles, or native aping European habits. The sweeper, waterman,
and other native helpers slight their work, or perchance, with the
poorest excuse, and that not made known until afterwards,--absent
themselves altogether. "But why"--some will ask "is it necessary to
employ these native cooks, washermen, etc.?
"Many of these women who go to the foreign field as missionaries'
wives were accustomed to do much of their own work here at home,--why
not do the same over there, and so avoid the expense,--as many of
us who support them have to do?" In the first place, many of the
missionaries have only one servant who is paid for full time, that
is the cook. All others do a little work night and morning, their
wages being made up by serving several different families. Again, it
would be a physical impossibility for the missionary's wife to do the
cooking and washing, adding the heat and smoke of an open fire to the
tropical heat of the atmosphere. Some have tried it, only to give it
up as utterly impracticable. Others have persisted in it, only to be
laid away in a cemetery in a foreign land, or to return hopelessly
broken in health, to the home-land.
_It cannot be done._ Moreover, it would be the height of folly for the
wife to spend her time and strength over cooking utensils, dish-pans
and wash-tubs. The wife, as truly as the husband, has consecrated
her life to the Master's service. There is work for her to do, among
the women and children, that he cannot touch. The missionary's wife
whether touring with him among jungle-villages; visiting from house
to house in the town; working in the school; making her influence
felt in the church; or even when prevented by family cares or failing
health--from engaging in active service,--she furnishes the object
lesson of a well-ordered Christian home, her life is of just as much
worth to the cause of Christ as is that of the missionary whose
helpmate she is. I can do no better than quote Dr. Herrick's beautiful
tribute to her worth: "I never yet saw a missionary's wife whose
companionship did not double her husband's usefulness. I have known
more than one whose face, as the years of life increase took on that
charm, that wondrous beauty that youthful features never wear, the
beauty of character, disciplined by suffering, of a life unselfishly
devoted to the highest ends. One of the choicest things of missionary
work is the unwritten heroism of missionary homes. It is the
missionary's wife who, by years of endurance and acquired experience
in the foreign field, has made it possible, in these later years, for
unmarried women to go abroad and live and work among the people of
eastern lands."
When a young man or woman has once settled the burning question: Is
it my duty and privilege to go as a missionary? and has become fully
pledged to that service, there is an intense desire to get to the
scene of action as soon as possible; to enter upon the grand work of
proclaiming Christ where He has not been named.
We had not long been in our new home before Burmans, both Christian
and heathen, began to call to see the new teachers. They evidently
wanted to welcome us as their missionaries; and we, in turn, wanted
them to know that love for them, for whom Christ died, had brought
us among them. But how helpless we felt! An exchange of smiles, a
hand-shake, a few words that neither party could understand,--that was
all.
We found ourselves utterly powerless to communicate to them one word
of all that was burning,--had been burning for years, in our hearts.
Then it was that the fact fully dawned upon us that before we could
hope to do effectively the work to which we had consecrated our lives,
a difficult foreign language must be mastered; that we must keep our
consecration warm, from the A B C of a strange tongue until the time
when, through the medium of that tongue we could tell "the story of
Jesus and His love." First in order then, is to get right down to hard
boning on the language of the people among whom the missionary is to
labour. He who fails to gain a strong hold on the language during the
first year, will labour under a disadvantage through all the years of
missionary service. Burdens are thrust upon him more than enough to
consume all his time and strength. Hundreds of villages in his large
district furnish a strong appeal to postpone study.
The climate soon begins to effect him so that he seems to lose the
power to study. Inheriting a large organized work he is forced at
once into service as a full-fledged missionary, before a pin-feather
of experience has had time to start. Interruptions are frequent and
unavoidable. How to find time for language study is indeed a serious
problem,--_but he must find it_, if his life is to tell for Christ,
at its best. Moreover, the missionary must master practically two
languages before he is fully equipped for service,--the language
of the book, and the language of the people. The formal style of
classical Burmese would be as out of place in the jungle as the
colloquial Burmese would be in the pulpit. In the one case it would
not be understood, in the other it would give offense,--for one may
not "talk down" to even a native audience. Hence, to be effective the
missionary must at the same time be faithful to study, and to real
contact with the people. It is no easy matter, after one has struggled
through all the years of training in the home-land, thumbing Latin,
Greek, and Hebrew Lexicons until he fondly thinks that his training
has been completed,--to get right down again to the A B C of a new
language. Here he meets something, that will test the soundness of
his consecration and of his _staying_ qualities. From first to last
our great missionaries have been men who have thoroughly mastered
the language of their people. But it is perfectly wonderful how the
natives will listen respectfully to the most laborious attempts to
speak to them in their own tongue. Not a smile at the most ridiculous
mistakes, not a word or sign to indicate that they are not really
understanding what you are driving at. This excessive respect
sometimes leads to serious consequences. The missionary, thinking
that he has made himself understood, is disappointed and hindered
because things do not come to pass. The native is not wanting a sense
of humour, and if he feels sure that you will enjoy the joke, he will
point out the mistake, and join in the laugh over it.
Unlike other languages of Burma, the construction of a Burmese
sentence is the reverse of the English order. Many sentences may be
translated backward, word for word, certain connective particles
becoming relative pronouns, with a perfect idiomatic English sentence
as the result. The eye can soon be trained to take in a printed
sentence as a whole, and grasp its meaning, without stopping to render
it into English in the reversed order. But to keep this order in mind,
in conversation, with the word expressing action left for the last,
like the snapper to a whip, is not so easy. In acquiring the language
by ear a difficulty arises from the universal habit of _kun_-chewing.
Never careful about enunciating his words, a wad of _kun_ in a
Burman's cheek adds to the confusion of sounds. With mouth half full
of saliva, chin protruding to keep it from slopping over,--a mumbled
jargon is what the ear must be trained to interpret as human speech.
By this time the newcomer has seen enough of the climate, and of
the side of society in which he will move, to convince him that his
Prince Albert coat, in which he has been accustomed to array himself
"every day in the week, and twice on Sunday" must be folded away in
his trunk until such a time as he takes a furlough in the home-land. A
fellow-missionary consoles him with the remark that he once wore back
to America the same coat that he wore to Burma eight years before.
Missionaries usually arrive in November, the beginning of the "cold
season." After that comes the "hot season,"--but it is difficult to
tell just where the one leaves off and the other begins.
In any event, the newcomer soon "warms to his work." First the
waistcoat is discarded, then the long thick coat gives place to a
short thin one. For underwear, gauze flannel and singlets are in
demand. Starched shirts and linen collars are reserved for special
occasions. High-top shoes are relegated to the corner-closet. Even
his watch hangs as an uncomfortable weight in his light clothing.
In the old life he hardly perspired once in the year. Now there is
hardly once in the year when he is not perspiring. The drinking-water
is so warm that it seems to have lost much of its wetness. What would
he not give to feel cool again. But he has not long to wait for his
wish to be more than realized. Some night, after fanning himself into
a restless sleep, he will wake up in a chill, to find himself in the
throes of the Burma fever, to which he was "not subject." Then he
will recall the lightly-regarded advice, repeatedly violated in every
particular, and now---- As this is the first attack he will get his
wife to treat him the first day with the homeopathic remedies in his
morocco medicine case,--his last misguided purchase before sailing.
There is nothing better to perpetuate a fever. On the second day,
having recalled some more advice, his head will be buzzing with
quinine, the only thing that will really help him,--as every man in
the tropics knows.
II
LIVING LIKE THE NATIVES
Much has been said and written about "living like the natives."
Many have maintained that the missionaries should abandon their former
mode of living, and adopt the customs and costume of the people among
whom they labour. It is said that old maids know the most about the
proper way to bring up children. It is interesting to note that
advocates of this theory of missionary methods are men who never have
been out of their native land, and have spent but little of their
time in informing themselves as to the habits of uncivilized peoples.
Prospective missionaries will do well to provide themselves with the
customary outfit,--to meet their needs while finding an answer to the
many-sided question,--how _do_ the natives live?
For the present we will confine our investigations to Burma. Let us
visit one of the native houses, and see for ourselves. Running the
gauntlet of several snarling pariah dogs, we pass through the muddy
door-yard, littered with banana leaves, munched sugar-cane, and
waste from various sources. The house is set up on posts, several
feet from the ground, affording a shady place below, to be shared by
the family and the domestic animals. The floor overhead is of split
bamboo or thin boards, with wide cracks through which all sweepings
fall, and _kun_-chewers lazily spit without troubling themselves to
get up. At the back part of the house a corner is partitioned off
for the cook-room, the stove being a very shallow box filled with
earth. The cooking is done in earthen chatties over the smoky open
fires. Near the cook-room is an open space where household utensils
are washed and the babies bathed, the water falling through the open
floor to the ground below. Month after month and year after year this
filthy habit goes on, forming a cesspool from which a foul stench
arises, offensive to nostrils and dangerous to health. This foul
pool is a paradise for their ducks, its slime being tracked all over
the place. The house is small, its thatched roof coming down so low
as hardly to leave room for a full-sized door. Many of these homes
have no out-buildings whatever, trusting to the pariah dogs and the
crows,--the village scavengers,--to keep the premises in a sanitary
condition. Some of the well-to-do Burmans live in larger better
houses; showing that not only is it impracticable for Europeans to
live like the natives, but that natives when able, find it wise to
live like Europeans. This is a tropical climate, with the temperature
at 112° in the shade on the day these words were written. It would be
almost suicidal for Europeans to attempt to live in such houses, even
under the best sanitary conditions possible. Missionaries have lived
for a time in such houses, from force of circumstances, but always to
the detriment of health, sometimes with very serious consequences.
To a stranger, European "bungalows" in the tropics seem needlessly
large. "Globe-trotters" in general, and sometimes representatives of
missionary societies, it is to be feared, visiting the tropics in the
coolest season,--carry away this impression with them. In New England
there is a saying "You must summer him and winter him" to find out
the real worth of a man or beast. Could all who visit the tropics,
or presume to write of conditions in the tropics,--spend a whole
year in such a climate critics would be few, and funds for seemingly
expensive, though necessary buildings less grudgingly given.
They who urge that Europeans should _clothe_ like the natives would
surely allow exceptions to the rule, on closer study of native habits.
Among some of the tribes of Burma the question of wardrobe and latest
style would be easily solved. Clothing like such natives would greatly
reduce the expense for "outfit." Two strips of cotton cloth, one for
the head, the other for the loins, would meet all requirements even
on state occasions. But apart from all questions of common decency, it
is to be seriously doubted whether the European would enjoy "sailing
under bare poles" in a tropical sun.
The railway trains are provided with first, second, and third-class
compartments. Officials and wealthy business men travel first-class.
Less fortunate Europeans, and people of mixed race but with European
habits travel second-class. Natives, as a rule, go third-class,--but
the rule has many exceptions. Not to speak of well-to-do Burmans
and Chinese, who, though unobjectionable in dress,--are inveterate
smokers, the "chetties," or money-lenders invariably travel
second-class. They are the wealthiest men in the county, but with
the exception of coolies,--they wear the least clothing and are the
most offensive in their habits. The missionaries, whether on private
or mission business, being unable to bear the expense of the higher
class, and striving to save for the society which they represent,
travel second-class. Now that many very objectionable natives have
taken to riding second-class, it is no longer respectable for
Europeans, except on rare occasions when the train is not crowded.
For my own part, I seriously doubt whether this habit, on the part of
American missionaries, of taking an inferior place among so-called
"Europeans," is a wise policy.
[Illustration: RAW MATERIAL (KACHINS)]
[Illustration: KACHINS SACRIFICING TO DEMONS]
But whether wise or otherwise, lack of funds has made it necessary.
Far from adopting the impossible costume of Chins, Kachins, Salongs
and other benighted races, the missionaries are earnestly striving
to develop in the natives sufficient moral sense that they may come
to regard the matter of being clothed at all, as something more than
a minor consideration. It is true that Burmans, Shans, and Christian
Karens dress more respectably. In fact, their costume, at its best,
seems to be very well adapted to the climate and their manner of life.
But even this somewhat generous concession must be modified.
The customary skirt for Burmese women in Upper Burma, and more or
less throughout the country, is a piece of coloured cloth about a
yard square, fastened around the waist to open in front. This style
of skirt is said to have been adopted by a decree of the Burman King.
Multitudes of Burmese women seem to have no disposition to abandon it
for something more modest, even after eighteen years of British rule.
Elderly women, as well as men of all ages, wear nothing above the
waist while about their work, even passing through the streets in that
condition with no self-consciousness. The Burmese skirt made after the
most approved pattern is only one thickness of cloth, tightly fitting
the body, not such a dress as European ladies would care to wear.
Mrs. Judson, ministering to her imprisoned husband, felt compelled
to adopt the native costume, to make her position more secure. But
supposing the missionaries adopt the costume of the corresponding
class,--the priests and nuns,--they must go with bare feet and shaven
heads; all very well for the natives, but nothing short of ridiculous,
as well as extremely dangerous under a tropical sun, if practiced by
white people. In the interior of China the costume of the people has
been found very suitable for the missionaries, and a help to winning
their way. But wherever the people have become familiar with European
customs, respect is forfeited, rather than gained by exchanging
European customs for those of the natives.
A missionary and his wife recently returned from Africa were invited
to speak in a certain church dressed in the native costume. They
appeared, but in their usual attire. In the course of his remarks the
missionary referred to the request that they appear in native costume,
and drawing a piece of cotton cloth from his pocket remarked "_That_
is the costume,--you will excuse us?"
Eating like the natives,--here comes the tug-of-war. The "backward
tribes,"--Chins, Kachins, Salongs, many tribes of Karens, and
others, eat everything,--from the white ant to the white-eyed
monkey. Worms, beetles, maggots, lizards, snakes, and many other
such delicious morsels would form a part of one's daily diet,--a
necessary part, unless the missionary has supplied himself with
tinned provisions,--in which case he would not be living like the
natives. But we will suppose that the missionary's lot has "fallen
in pleasant places"--among the more civilized Burmans of the plains.
Rice will be the centre and substance of the two daily meals. Rice,
well-cooked,--the natives can do that to perfection,--is an excellent
food, and finds a conspicuous place on the bill of fare at every
European table. But rice is made palatable by the savoury "curry"
served with it. In jungle-villages, and among poor people in the town
this curry will be made of vegetables (not such vegetables as we have
known in the home-land), and tender sprouts and leaves, seasoned
with chillies. Devout Buddhists will not take animal life, hence
meat-curries, if far from the market, may not be thought of.
If the missionary has undertaken to live among the natives and like
the natives, he must learn to do without meat. They will not kill a
fowl for him. If he kills one for himself, he has broken his contract.
But, perchance, an animal may die of itself, then its carcass will be
parcelled out to all the villagers, and the missionary will have his
share. In the town he may fare better, without breaking his rule. Meat
slaughtered by non-Buddhists is on sale in the Bazar every day.
Buddhists as well as others may buy and eat, for the sin is only in
the killing, in which they had no part. It is nothing to them that the
demand occasions the supply. So what time the missionary spends in
town he may have his meat.
In spite of the commandment, "thou shalt not take the life of any
living thing," undoubtedly the most important Thou shalt not--in
the Buddhist creed, with the penalty of the lowest hell for its
violation,--there is no lack of fishermen. Theoretically, they are
the lowest of the low. But if all fishermen were to die to-day--their
places would be filled to-morrow, and the market still be supplied.
The natives want fish seven days in the week, if they can get it.
But not even a fresh-meat or fresh fish-curry is satisfactory to the
native palate until flavoured with dried fish, or with "nga-pee." In
the Bazar may be found smoked and dried fish in great variety, very
tempting to the native, but betraying the fact that too many hours
under a tropical sun were allowed before curing. This fish is often
eaten raw, in blissful ignorance of the microbe theory,--indifference
would be the better word, for their "microbes" frequently are visible
to the naked eye. If these organisms have not actually eaten part of
the fish, they are considered so much clear gain to the consumer.
Such food is largely responsible for the great demand for a strong
vermifuge in the treatment of sickness.
Now we come to "nga-pee" proper, regarded by the Burmans and several
other races, as essential to a well-flavoured meal.
"The smell of nga-pee is certainly not charming to an uneducated
nose,"--said a writer on Burmese customs,--a statement that has passed
unchallenged. There are many varieties of nga-pee, but to all the
remark quoted may be applied. The most common is called fish-paste or
"Burmese butter," made from the smaller fish which are caught in large
quantities, as smelts are in the home-land. The fish are spread on
mats under a tropical sun, just as they come from the water, and left
there until in a condition which an "uneducated nose" would not care
to investigate.
They are then mashed to a paste,--a very easy matter,--salt is
worked into the mass, and then it is packed away to drain. The oily
juice is carefully saved in earthern jars, a highly prized liquid
flavouring. When well drained the nga-pee is taken to market in sacks
or in bulk, the indescribable odour always going a mile in advance,
when the wind is right. Passengers by river-steamers sometimes find
themselves sandwiched in between two cargo-boats loaded with nga-pee,
fairly sizzling under a broiling sun. Passenger trains halting at
stations sometimes stand over against a few carloads of nga-pee on
the side-track, filling the passenger-compartments with an odour rank
and unbearable. And yet this vile stuff is eagerly devoured by all
races, and must be allowed a place in the missionary's meal, if he is
to "live like the natives." Nga-pee furnishes only one, though a very
self-assertive one of the many offensive smells of an Oriental Bazar.
Many fastidious people never go to the Bazar, for fear of contracting
some kind of disease. There is much in the condition of these places
to furnish ground for such fears. And yet I never have heard of
disease being so taken. It would seem that one odour counteracts
another, completely foiling all evil intentions of the spirit of
sickness.
III
CUSTOMS OF THE BURMESE
The Burman is the proudest mortal on earth. Indeed, he is not of
earth, according to his own belief, but has descended from fallen
angels. Many ages ago certain Brahmas came down from the celestial
regions to dwell on the earth. By adapting themselves to the habits of
ordinary human beings, they themselves gradually became human. From
these Brahmas or fallen angels, the whole Burman nation descended.
The Burman recognizes no superior. The superior advantages of a
training in the Western world counts for nothing, because the Burman
cannot appreciate such advantages. At one time when in conversation
with a Burman official recognized as one of the ablest Burmans in the
country, I dilated upon the extent, power, wealth, and resources of
the United States, in answer to his many questions about my country.
Wishing to impress him, I made the figures as large as conscience
would allow. At last he summed it all up in the self-satisfied
expression--"About as big as Burma, isn't it?" A difference of about
70,000,000 in population was not comprehended. He could conceive of
nothing bigger or more important than Burma. The Burman kings posed
as the Head of Religion. The king was more than human. His subjects
were his slaves, with no legal right to anything which he might crave
for himself. He could compel them to perform any labour he saw fit
to impose. His titles indicate his high estimate of himself: "His
glorious and excellent Majesty, Lord of Elephants, Lord of gold,
silver, rubies, amber, and the noble serpentine, Sovereign of the
Empires of Thunapurtanta and Jambudipa, and other great Empires and
countries, and of all the Umbrella-bearing chiefs, The supporter
of Religion, Descendant of the Sun, Arbiter of Life, King of
Righteousness, King of Kings, and Possessor of boundless dominion and
supreme wisdom." That is all. It was well to be somewhat modest, as an
example to the people.
The king was "Lord of the White Elephant," for short. That in itself
ought to have satisfied a man of ordinary ambition, inasmuch as the
white elephant was a sacred animal, and had the "power of making
its possessor invincible." "The white umbrella was the emblem of
sovereignty in Burma, and its use was limited to the king and the
images of Gautama." The Buddhist priest must be content with a
more modest title than "Pongyi," the name by which they are now
known,--for pongyi means "Great Glory," and could be applied only
to the king. But when the king fell into the hands of the English
the title "Great Glory" went broadcast--to minister to the vanity of
the thousands of priests and to be retained by them as a monopoly.
Burman officials to this day are equally proud of their titles, from
the highest in the land down to the Ywa-Thugyi, the village headman.
To address any official by name instead of his title, would be a
gross breach of etiquette. In the king's time official etiquette
was scrupulously observed, even towards prisoners of the official
class. Royal blood must never be shed, even in executions. A blow
from a bludgeon on the back of the neck of the stooping victim,--or
in the case of females, a blow on the front of the neck settled the
account. Nor might royal victims be buried. The body, enshrouded in
a red velvet sack, was taken in a boat to the middle of the river,
and thrown in. It is said that this was sometimes done without the
formality of an execution, a few stones in the sack answering the
same purpose. Crucifixion was also common. It is claimed that in many
instances the victim was first put to death and then the mutilated
body bound to the bamboo cross and exhibited as a fearful warning
to evil-doers. Dread of being crucified led thousands to migrate
to British territory after the annexation of Pegu. The ugly terms
"imprisonment," and "execution" were never used at the court of the
king. There was a "keeping by" and a "clearing away," to suit the
caprice of the king, scores and hundreds being massacred at once, on
the merest suspicion of conspiracy. "Uneasy lies the head that wears
a crown," was true of Burman kings, and they had a way of making all
others of royal blood equally uneasy.
[Illustration: POUNDING RICE]
One of the causes leading to the last Burmese-English war, was the
famous "Shoe question." According to the Burmese custom, sandals must
be removed outside the entrance, whether of private residence or royal
palace. When a subject of however exalted rank was admitted to the
presence of the king, he must come in his bare feet, and approach in a
crouching position so that his skirt would prevent his feet being seen
by the fastidious eyes of the king. Heads have been lost for violation
of less important rules of etiquette. Representatives of the British
Government were compelled to follow this humiliating custom,--though
they were graciously allowed to keep their stockings on,--and to sit
on the floor at a respectful distance from His Majesty, Lord of the
White Elephant, etc., etc. The Briton thought this inconsistent with
proper respect for the government he represented, to say nothing of
his own personal feelings. Diplomatic negotiations were delayed, for
the haughty king would allow no deviation from this humiliating
custom. Although the war was not declared on this issue, English
officials who had been required to remove their shoes, found great
satisfaction in requiring the king to remove his crown. The custom
of taking off one's sandals when entering any house still prevails.
Entering with sandals on could only be interpreted as a deliberate
insult. When a European enters a monastery he is expected to take off
his shoes, though the priest does not insist upon it--when informed
that it is not European custom.
If twenty men come to see the missionary, the last man must step over
nineteen pairs of sandals at the foot of the stairs. But when it comes
to head-gear, the custom is reversed. While Europeans would take
off their hats, the Burmans do not remove their _gaung-baungs_, or
turbans. The _gaung-baung_ is usually of gaudy silk, and worn at all
times, even at worship, by both Buddhist and Christian.
When Saul had been informally proclaimed King of Israel, the people
"despised him, and brought him no present." This would not have
happened in Burma, as the attitude of men from whom presents would
naturally be expected,--unless perchance they had ceased to value that
portion of their bodies above the shoulders. Whether king, subordinate
official, or private citizen, a present suited to the weight of the
matter in hand was an essential preliminary to a hearing. Under
British rule, Burman officials do not openly perpetuate this custom.
They now content themselves with bribes quietly presented, usually
through a third party, in place of the present once openly offered.
But in social life the custom of making presents is a recognized
matter of etiquette, even when visiting non-official superiors. It
commonly takes the form of a tray of the choicest fruit procurable.
But in the majority of instances it finally appears that some favour
or other is being sought.
Poor people sometimes come with a bunch of plantains or a few oranges
which they beg us graciously to accept as a token of their great
esteem, and then hang around the place waiting for a return present of
ten times the value of their own. The European soon becomes suspicious
of presents as likely to prove more expensive than the regular Bazar
rate.
A missionary to the Indians in British Columbia relates a story which,
so far as motive is concerned, might have been matched in Burma. One
day an Indian gave them two fat ducks. "What shall I pay for them?"
"Oh, nothing, they are a present for the missionary." The Indian hung
around, remained to dinner, ate one of the ducks, remained through
the afternoon, ate the equivalent of the other duck, remained until
bedtime, when the missionary hinted that perhaps he had better go
home to see if his wigwam was where he left it. "I'm only waiting."
"Waiting for what?" "Waiting for the present you are to give me for
the present I gave you."
A peculiar custom that always impresses the newcomer, is that of doing
obeisance, called "shikkoing." When the devout worshipper counts the
beads on his rosary he repeats the formula with each bead "Lord, Law,
Priest--the three precious things" or objects of his worship.
As a counterpart of this formula he goes through three prostrations,
with palms together, bowing his face to the ground in honour of the
three precious things of his creed. These prostrations are also gone
through at confessional before the priest,--one of the "precious
things" before mentioned. He does not enumerate his sins, but lumps
them, declaring that for all the sins he has committed he prostrates
himself three times, in honour of the three precious things, and hopes
thereby to be freed from all punishments and calamities. In respect to
both spirit and method this custom reminds one of a certain man who
used to hang his clumsily written prayer to the bedpost, saying as he
crawled into bed, "Lord, them's my sentiments." After his lump-sum
confession he receives the priest's benediction, which is practically
the same as absolution, and goes away, the self-complacent pharisee
that he is.
What astonishes and shocks the missionary is to find a heathen Burman
at his feet going through this seeming act of worship. He feels as
horrified as did Paul and Barnabas at Lystra. But he afterwards
learns when he comes to understand the Burman better,--that these
prostrations before superiors are not intended as acts of real
worship. He is merely showing his humble respect, as a preliminary to
some appeal for favour.