EARLY YEARS AND FIRST IMPRESSIONS
My personal acquaintance with Burma dates from January, 1878. I came
to India as a Bengal civilian, attached to the Upper Provinces, liable
to serve in the North-West Provinces, the Punjab and Oudh. It was
doubtless for that reason and because I had shown some aptitude for the
study of Persian that the Government of India were pleased to post me
to the Central Provinces, and then, before I had even joined at Nagpúr,
to order me to Burma. As in those days our covenants did not bind us to
serve elsewhere than in the Province of our choice, I think it likely
that, after a term in Burma, I might have obtained a transfer to the
North-West Provinces. However, I went to Burma and stayed there; and so
far as my official career is concerned, I do not suppose I should have
done as well in any other part of India. Certainly I should not have
had elsewhere so interesting a life, or found so congenial a people.
On our arrival in Rangoon, my wife and I were hospitably received by
two residents, Mr. E. C. Morrieson, a man of my own year, and Mr. C.
F. Egerton Allen, then Government Advocate, afterwards acting Recorder
of Rangoon, and still later in the House as member for Pembroke
Boroughs. Their kindness was in accordance with the traditions of the
country, which, I am glad to say, are still maintained. A comparatively
new Province, in some respects it may be a little behind the times,
Burma has always cherished the primitive virtues, conspicuously that
of hospitality. Perhaps to some extent this is ascribable to the
influence of the _genius loci_. For in the world there are no kinder or
more hospitable people than the Burmese. The generous manner in which
strangers are received may be one reason why hotels in Burma have, if
possible, a worse repute than those of India.[22]
Our first station was Bassein, one of the four ports of Burma, situated
on a fair river some sixty miles from the sea, in the midst of the
Delta of the Irrawaddy. It was then the headquarters of a district.
Not very long afterwards it became the headquarters of the Irrawaddy
division, carved out of the overworked division of Pegu. In those days
the only approach to Bassein was by river steamer. Even now, though
Bassein is linked with Rangoon by rail, the river journey is easier
and pleasanter. Our little vessel steamed now on the broad flood of
the main river, now through narrow winding channels, called locally
“creeks,” which intersect the delta in countless profusion. Though
searchlights in the bows were then unknown, we ran on, by day and
night, between densely wooded banks. Now and again the passage was
so narrow that branches of trees crashed through our cabin window.
Here and there, on the mud of a bank left bare by the tide, we saw
crocodiles and bands of chattering monkeys. Except at the large
villages, where we halted to take up and set down passengers and cargo,
the solitude was perfect save for a few huts on the riverside, a casual
fisherman in his dugout, a boat full of men and women going to market,
or of monks (pôngyis) in their yellow robes. The hideous sampan and the
still more horrible lighter or barge had not yet invaded these sacred
recesses. Such larger craft as passed us were the stately Burmese
boats, built on graceful lines, propelled by sail and oar, with high
carved sterns on which the helmsman sat aloft. Such people as we saw
were all Burmans or Karens. The kala[23] was as rare as a black swan.
My Deputy Commissioner was Mr. G. D. Burgess,[24] one of the first
civilians deputed to Burma, of the same year as the late Sir Denzil
Ibbetson, of lamented memory. Mr. C. U. Aitchison,[25] who succeeded
Mr. Rivers Thompson as Chief Commissioner early in 1878, visited
Bassein this year in the course of a tour in the old Government
steamer, the _Irrawaddy_. Recognizing Mr. Burgess’s rare ability, he
called him to Rangoon soon afterwards to act as secretary in place
of Major Street, who went on leave. This was exceptional promotion
for a man of about eight years’ service. Mr. Burgess was a man of
great capacity, of untiring industry, of immense power of work, of
exceptional mastery of detail, of singularly sane judgment, one whose
opinion, as Mr. Aitchison said, was always worthy of consideration. For
several years he worked in the secretariat, afterwards did excellent
service as Commissioner at Mandalay and elsewhere, and in due course
became Judicial Commissioner of Upper Burma. In that high office he
had full scope for his industry and sound judgment. His rulings,
especially on points of Buddhist law, illuminated many dark places, and
are still cited with respect. Mr. Burgess’s health was undermined by
excessive work in the secretariat. In 1898 he had to take leave, and,
by a melancholy accident, died at sea on his way home. He was one of
the ablest officers who ever served in Burma, and, if his health had
not failed, must have risen to the highest posts. If he had a fault
officially, it was a tendency to interfere too much in detail and to do
the work of his subordinates. No doubt, as Mr. Aitchison used to say,
and as others have often said, the great administrator is he who does
his own duty and sees that those under him do theirs. But the defect I
have ventured to note is the defect of a generous quality.
In those days the education of junior civilians was left to take care
of itself. There was no Land Records Department and there were no
elaborate circulars prescribing a course of training. What sort of
training a junior officer enjoyed, or whether he had any training at
all, depended entirely on the quality of his first Deputy Commissioner.
I need hardly say that I regard as preferable the present system,
under which every young officer is passed through a definite course
of practical instruction in all branches of his work. But even now
a great deal depends on the personality of the Deputy Commissioner.
It was my good fortune to begin my service under the guidance of an
excellent officer and a high-minded, great-hearted gentleman. Never
had green griffin a kindlier or abler mentor. And to the end of his
life Mr. Burgess treated me with the kindness of an elder brother. I
was placed in charge of the Treasury; given Third Class magisterial
powers, that is, power to imprison for one month, fine up to fifty
rupees, and, such was the barbaric darkness of that age, to whip; and
set to try petty criminal cases, learn Burmese, and prepare for the
departmental examinations. I confess that I had a charmingly idle time.
In those happy days life was not in the least strenuous. The busiest
time was when the head accountant went sick for about a month, and I
had to do his work as well as my own. In this way I did thoroughly
learn the Treasury system, even if I forgot it afterwards. The zeal
of youth betrayed me into a somewhat serious blunder, whereby I
incurred the formal censure of Government. This, though recorded, was
never officially communicated to me, and does not seem to have done
me any harm. I cannot call to mind anything amusing or interesting
in the court or office work. If there are tales, others must tell
them. It was not in Bassein that a Third Class Magistrate sentenced a
cattle-thief to imprisonment for one week, the normal sentence then,
and, I hope, now being one of two years’ hard labour. Called upon for
justification, he gravely explained that he had to observe some measure
in his sentences. If he gave a man a whole month for cattle-theft, what
sentence could he pass if he convicted a man of murder? Nor was it here
that a young magistrate fined a woman Rs. 10, or in default rigorous
imprisonment for two years. It was elsewhere that an officer fined his
own servant judicially for “spoiling the Court’s soup” by using an oily
cloth to wipe the plates withal. These stories, current in Burma long
ago, are possibly all invented. Similarly mythical, I suspect, are
the legends of the young civilian who gratefully accepted advice not
to try a long shot, lest he should strain the gun; of another who on
the voyage out kept under his pillow a revolver wrapped in paper and
labelled “Dangerous”; of a third who was persuaded to rise at mess,
as the representative of Government, and forestall the President in
announcing the toast of “The Queen.” But many years later, with my own
ears, I heard the health of Her Majesty proposed, “coupled with the
name of General ----,” and the gallant General respond on behalf of his
Sovereign.
Bassein was a charming station, with that mingling of non-official
and official society which doth ever add pleasure. The great rice
firms, Messrs. Bulloch Bros., Messrs. Strang Steel and Co., Messrs.
Mohr Bros., and others, had mills on either side of the river, and the
presence of their representatives helped to form a festive and sociable
community. We were all young and all cheerful. Though there was no
club, we managed to meet and enjoy life. Besides an inchoate attempt
at polo, then just coming into vogue, riding in the fields and jungle,
and playing lawn tennis, were the principal amusements. Golf had not
been introduced. I am afraid ladies had rather a quiet time, for dances
were of very rare occurrence. But bachelor frolics were many, and the
spectacled Deputy Commissioner who looked grave enough on the Bench was
leader in every frivolity. His Saturday night whist dinners were often
more hilarious than the occasion indicates. I refrain from recording
instances of light-hearted jests perpetrated from time to time, partly
because they were too trivial for immortality, partly lest the serious
reader think us more childish-foolish than we were. The survivors of
those joyous days will call to mind many a noisy revel. No harm was
done. Mr. Kipling would have found no copy for the mildest of plain
tales.
There were reminders of historic times. One of the Public Works
officers was a veteran who had fought at Chillianwallah. Another
resident had learnt his work under Brunel. Less pleasing relics of
the past were a few old men branded on the forehead and sent into
transportation from India. Some, but not all, were mutineers. They were
not in confinement, but eked out a wretched existence on two or three
pence a day.
I saw something of district life. More than once the Deputy Commissioner
took me on tour with him, and I had opportunities of learning methods of
sound administration. The Deputy Commissioner was the head of the
district, and, as already stated, controlled all except the purely
Imperial departments. Even over Forests, Public Works, and Education
he exercised paternal sway. He was explicitly declared to be the head
of the police. And he was the chief executive officer, with as much
influence as his personality secured. He cherished his own District
Fund, his pet child, and had a fair amount of money to spend on minor
works. Often he was his own road-maker. As District Magistrate, with
power to try all but capital offences and impose substantial penalties,
and as District Judge, with unlimited original civil jurisdiction and
wide appellate powers, he directed the judicial administration.
He constantly travelled slowly through the district, and was personally
known to all the people. In most districts the volume of work was not
beyond the capacity of an able and energetic officer. We in Bassein
were fortunate in possessing the ablest Deputy Commissioner in the
Province, and the district flourished under his benign and firm
rule. It was an invaluable object-lesson to accompany Mr. Burgess
on tour and mark his procedure. Always accessible to the humblest
villager, yet strict in upholding the authority of his subordinates,
Myo-ôks and Thugyis; halting here and there to investigate disputes
in revenue matters, to hear complaints, to try cases; treating the
local officials with kindness and consideration, while preserving his
place and dignity; inspecting village records; checking capitation tax
returns and land revenue rolls; visiting fields on which remission of
revenue was claimed; taking a day off now and then to shoot snipe; the
Deputy Commissioner’s progress tended to the happiness of the people
and the peace of the countryside. I have no doubt that this was the
best system of administration ever devised or practised. The separation
of judicial and executive functions, the curtailment of the Deputy
Commissioner’s powers, the attempt, happily so far not successful in
Burma, to diminish his authority over the police and his responsibility
for peace and order, are all steps backward; to vary the metaphor,
they are solvents which will gradually destroy the vitality of the
administration and weaken the foundations of good government laid
by our predecessors. I have no right to speak of other provinces of
India. In Burma there is a comparatively simple social organization.
With a strong feeling of personal independence and a full measure of
self-respect, the people looked up to the officials and recognized
that they were better off under authority than if they attempted to
govern themselves. Above all, they knew that in the last resort they
could rely on the justice and firmness of British officers. Under this
system the moral and material welfare of the peasant and trader was
promoted far more surely than by the introduction of Western methods
unsuited to the idiosyncrasy of the race. Nor does this proposition
preclude Burmans from obtaining by degrees an ever-increasing share in
the offices of the administration. As qualified men become available,
by all means let them undertake higher duties. But do not let us try
prematurely to impose representative institutions on people who neither
demand nor understand them. Above all, let us avoid the pernicious cant
of thinking that our mission in Burma is the political education of
the masses. Our mission is to conserve, not to destroy, their social
organism; to preserve the best elements of their national life; by the
maintenance of peace and order to advance the well-being of the Burmese
people.
At Bassein, in town and district, I first saw Burmans at home, and
laid the foundations of many lasting friendships. My first two clerks
were Maung Pe,[26] and Maung Aung Zan. One has long been the respected
Second Judge of the Small Cause Court in Rangoon, the Aristides of
his race; the other is the first Burman District Judge. A well-known
character was U Bya, the Judge of the Bassein Small Cause Court, an
officer of age and dignity, who, it was said, had raised himself to
his honourable rank from the humble position of peon in the Treasury.
Although contact with foreigners had to some extent begun to affect
the Burmese character, it must be remembered that the time of which I
write was only twenty-five years after the taking of Rangoon, a shorter
period than has now elapsed since the occupation of Mandalay. Even
in Pegu the Burman was far less sophisticated than he has become in
recent years. The great rice-plains of the delta were not nearly all
under cultivation. The farmer worked his own moderate holding with the
help of his family and of reapers who came down annually from Upper
Burma. The inroad of coolies and settlers from Madras and Bengal not
yet begun. The delta was sparsely peopled, and everyone was happy and
contented.
After leaving Bassein, I spent a few weeks in Rangoon as personal
assistant to the Chief Commissioner. The personal assistant combined
the posts of private secretary and aide-de-camp, without the
emoluments, and with only part of the work of those offices. Under
Mr. Aitchison’s tolerant régime, the duties were extremely light, and
consisted mainly in ciphering and deciphering telegrams. By him and by
Mrs. (now Lady) Aitchison, we were treated with unvarying kindness.
The days spent as members of their official family are days of happy
memory. Mr. Aitchison was one of the first batch of competition walas,
and was rightly regarded as a distinguished ornament of our service.
At a very early stage in his career he became Foreign Secretary to the
Government of India. That high office he exchanged for the comparative
obscurity of Burma, only because he differed from the Viceroy (Lord
Lytton) on points of frontier policy. He was a man of exceptional
ability, of resolute character, with the most delicate sense of honour,
a chief whom it was a pride and pleasure to serve. The Governor-General
being his own Foreign Minister, Mr. Aitchison had been brought into
close personal relations with every Viceroy[27] who, up to that time,
had held office. In his judgment, among these statesmen, the man
of genius, the one who got most quickly to the root of a difficult
problem, was Lord Lytton. As the two men were by no means sympathetic,
this opinion is of special value.
We came to Rangoon early in 1879, at a time of great excitement. The
preceding October had seen the death of Mindôn Min, who ruled the
Burmese kingdom for more than five-and-twenty years. King Mindôn, or
Min-taya-gyi Paya, was an enlightened monarch, worthy to be placed
in the same class, though not side by side, with Solomon and Akbar.
He wrested the throne from his incapable brother, Pagan Min, whose
headstrong folly had involved his country in the Second Burmese War.
With rare magnanimity, he neither slew nor blinded the deposed King,
but allowed him to live in peace in his own house for the rest of his
days. Indeed, Pagan Min survived his successor. Mindôn Min was an
able administrator, and quite master of his kingdom. He held in his
own hands all the threads of government, and kept himself informed of
all that happened even in the remotest corners. Peace and order were
reasonably well maintained, and projects for developing the resources
of the country were initiated. The teak forests were opened out by
English firms. Many Europeans, principally French and Italian, were
attracted to his Court, and employed in various capacities. Among other
reforms may be mentioned the levy of regular taxation on land and
incomes, and the payment of salaries to officials. The practice had
been for an official to be placed in charge of a local area, which he
was expressively said to “eat.” After paying his dues to Government,
he squeezed as much as possible for himself. In this reign, though the
custom was not abolished, its prevalence was restricted. The King was
a very pious Buddhist, a generous benefactor of the pagoda at Rangoon,
and a steadfast pillar of his religion. He discouraged the taking of
life, the use of opium, the consumption of intoxicating liquors. Like
Solomon in wisdom, he rivalled him in the number of his wives. Although
he declined to make a treaty ceding any part of his dominions to Great
Britain, he respected the frontier-line laid down by Lord Dalhousie,
he kept on good terms with our Government in Lower Burma, and he had
the good sense highly to appreciate Sir Arthur Phayre. So long as he
ruled in Mandalay, there was no likelihood of any expansion of British
territory at his cost.
The death of Mindôn Min threw the whole of Upper Burma into confusion.
By a palace intrigue, in which the principal actors were Queen
Sinbyumashin and the Taingda Mingyi,[28] the Thebaw Mintha,[29] was
placed on the throne. King Thebaw was about eighteen years of age. He
seems to have been a dull youth, of no character, good or bad. The
beginning of his rule was stained by the murder of most of the sons of
Mindôn Min, a massacre as ruthless and almost as many-headed as the
slaughter of the sons of Ahab. Though the Princesses were not killed,
they were consigned to captivity. Of the massacre of the Princes, two
extreme views have been held. The young King has been represented
as a monster of cruelty, himself personally responsible for this
atrocity. The cynical suggestion is that, in Burma as in other Oriental
countries, it was a measure of ordinary precaution for the King to
remove possible rivals and pretenders; in so doing, Thebaw was no worse
than his predecessors. As a matter of fact, most likely neither the
King nor his much-maligned Queen had much to do with the massacre. It
was, no doubt, the work of his Ministers, chiefly of the blood-stained
Taingda Mingyi, a name to all succeeding ages cursed. But it is also
the case that this wholesale butchery, though not without precedent,
was not in accordance with the practice of Burman Kings, at least, in
recent years. Certainly no such deluge of blood sullied the opening
days of King Mindôn. The probable explanation is that the title of
the new King was felt to be precarious, while his personality did not
compensate the insecurity of his claim. He was not the eldest, nor the
ablest, nor the most popular, of Mindôn Min’s sons. For these reasons,
I conjecture, some of the Ministers thought it desirable to remove
potential centres of revolt and disaffection. I cannot believe that my
learned and mild-tempered friend, the Kinwun Mingyi, though nominally
the head of the State Council, approved this savage measure. The
stories current at the time, of the King priming himself with drink,
and personally directing the slaughter, were certainly false. It is
true, however, that in the early days of his reign King Thebaw was much
under the influence of a titular Prince, Maung Tôk,[30] and that these
two boon companions did hold drunken orgies together. After Maung Tôk’s
removal there is no record of intemperance in the Palace.
The massacre of the sons of Mindôn Min sent a thrill of horror through
the civilized world. Our Resident at Mandalay, Mr. R. B. Shaw, entered
vehement protests. He also sheltered two Princes, the Nyaung-yan and
Nyaung-ôk Minthas, who were, I understand, brought to the Residency
by M. d’Avéra, and whose lives were saved by their despatch to Lower
Burma and thence to Calcutta. In Rangoon the Press and public were
loud in condemnation, and clamorous for action. In the interests of
humanity and civilization the Indian Government were urgently pressed
to intervene. They nearly did so. Preparations for the despatch of
troops were begun. One regiment, the 43rd Light Infantry, actually came
over from Madras, in hot haste and with the barest camp kit, and was
sent to the frontier. All its officers expected to be in Mandalay in
a fortnight, and sore was the indignation of the British regiment in
Rangoon that these new-comers should go to the front while it remained
in cantonments. The Rangoon Regiment had its consolation. For all their
term in Burma the 43rd stayed on the frontier, and never put a foot
across it. The Government of India were fully occupied with troubles
in Afghanistan, which some few months later culminated in the murder
of Sir Louis Cavagnari at Cabul. At home, Ministers were staggered by
the disaster of Isandhlwana in February of this year. Both Governments
had their hands too full to find leisure for upholding the cause of
humanity in Upper Burma. It was a very near thing. Had there not been
pressing affairs elsewhere, we should doubtless have occupied Mandalay,
and almost certainly set up a protected King. The time was ripe for
intervention, but not for annexation.
At Government House we were kept moderately busy by telegrams with
Mandalay and Calcutta. One fine morning the Nyaung-yan Prince appeared,
with the design of attempting (to speak proleptically) a Jameson raid
on Upper Burma. The secret history of this incident I may not tell.
Let it suffice to say that the Prince was sent back to Calcutta with
all speed in a Government ship. To soothe public feeling in Rangoon
a Press _communiqué_ was issued from the Secretariat, informing the
world that in respect of Upper Burma the attitude of the Government of
India was one of “repose and defence,” a phrase which was received with
mingled surprise and derision. The explanation I may perhaps disclose
after many years. The telegram of the Government of India authorizing
the announcement was signalled, or at any rate transcribed by me, in
the words given to the Press. But what the Government of India wrote
was that their attitude was one of “reserve and defence.” Curiously and
perhaps somewhat ingenuously the Rangoon Volunteer Rifles adopted, and
for many years retained, as their motto the words “Repose and Defence.”
Of late they have become more energetic, and this motto has been
discarded as inappropriate.
Government House maintained the hospitable traditions of the Province.
All the officers of the 43rd were entertained and housed during their
very brief stay in Rangoon, and, though tourists were fewer than in
later years, we had some visitors. Of these the most distinguished
was General Ulysses Grant, ex-President of the United States, who in
his voyage round the world touched at Rangoon. With him came Mrs.
Grant, their son Colonel Grant, a Cabinet Minister, a doctor, and a
man of letters. General Grant seemed to me to talk, in moderation, as
much as other people. I had the honour of being instructed by him in
the mysteries of the constitution of the United States, and even of
discussing with him the possibility of a League of Anglo-Saxon Peoples
to impose peace on the world. He impressed us all as a man of strength,
dignity, and character. The growing port and city of Rangoon interested
him, and he foresaw and foretold its early and rapid increase. May I
tell here a trivial story? At a reception at Government House in honour
of General Grant, whereat all Rangoon was present, one of the highest
officers brought down the house by withdrawing a chair on which the
Commissioner of Pegu was about to sit. As the Commissioner weighed
about twenty stone, he was somewhat seriously annoyed by this frolic,
though not, I am glad to say, hurt. I record the incident, and refrain
from moralizing.
Though wealth has increased and the standard of living has been raised,
there seems to have been more money to spend in Rangoon in those days.
The great merchants vied with Government House in their entertainments.
One at least left a lasting impression. More than twenty years after
I tried in vain for some time to explain to my old native coachman
where he was to drive. At last my meaning dawned on him. “You want to
go to Leishmann Sahib’s house.” Now, Leishmann Sahib had opened his
doors to General Grant, and about a year later had left Rangoon for
ever. Rice and teak were the sole sources of wealth. The oil-fields
were as yet unexplored. The price of rice had not risen to its recent
fictitious height. There were no limited companies with opportunities
for unlimited speculation.
About this time the Diocese of Rangoon was constituted, and Dr. J. H.
Titcomb was consecrated the first Bishop. Coming straight from England,
with no knowledge of the East, Bishop Titcomb’s inexperience betrayed
him into some pardonable mistakes. Very soon after his arrival, he
surprised some friends with words to this effect: “Though I have been
here such a short time, I regret to say that already sorrow has visited
my household. I have had to give my cook a week’s leave to bury his
grandmother.” For a cook to ask leave to attend his grandmother’s
funeral is much the same as for an undergraduate to prefer a similar
request in Derby week. I mean no disrespect to a good man’s memory by
telling this innocent story. The Bishop won all hearts by his kind
and gentle bearing, and was, I am sure, an excellent occupant of the
new See. He was the first Prelate with whom I was privileged to play
lawn-tennis.
A little earlier had been tried the eccentric experiment of appointing
a Forest Officer to the charge of the Education Department in the
temporary absence of the Director. The acting Director played the part
of Balaam with a difference. In his first and last Annual Report,
instead of blessing, he freely cursed the Department and all its works.
Mr. Max Ferrars still flourishes. He has returned to his early love,
and professes literature at a German University. He will forgive me for
exhuming this early incident of his career. The Education Department,
from time to time, has incurred much obloquy, for the most part
undeserved. Its errors have been due to want of intimate knowledge of
the language and customs of the people. Certainly it has never merited
the cynical censure, perhaps unwittingly implied in a Government
Resolution which, in removing an officer as an incorrigible drunkard,
remarked that he might obtain employment in the Education Department.