THE FIRST SUBDIVISION: THE SECRETARIAT
My first subdivision was Pantanaw in the Delta of the Irrawaddy. The
town from which it was named stands on a narrow creek through which
used to pass the steamers of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company plying
between Rangoon and Bassein. Long since the mouth of the creek has
silted up. When next I visited Pantanaw, as Commissioner, I had to
approach the town in a small boat of the shallowest draft. But, in ’79,
the arrival of the Bassein steamer was the event of the week. Pantanaw
is said to be a Talaing (and portmanteau) word meaning “The abode
of the people who have to use mosquito nets.” If the Burma Research
Society correct this statement, I must bear it. At any rate, if the
etymology is false, the connotation is true. Burma could show places
where mosquitoes were more numerous and more valiant, where even cattle
had to be put under nets at night and prisoners in jail protected by
iron gratings. But the mosquitoes of Pantanaw were plentiful and brave
enough. After a short time one seems to become more or less immune
against ordinary mosquito bites. The new-comer is more succulent and
more attractive to this friendly insect. It is the song of the creature
which is a persistent annoyance. But the mosquito of these parts has
no curious taste. To the last he bit me as well as sang in my ears.
In those days the local mosquito apparently was not of the kind which
carries malaria. Or perhaps, owing to the backward state of sanitary
education, he had not yet learned his trade. Cholera and smallpox
excepted, the delta was comparatively free from serious diseases.
Though swampy and water-logged, it was not beset by malignant fevers.
Our house was humble. In accordance with the usage of the time, it was
built on piles, so that the rooms were 8 or 10 feet above the ground.
Thus we lived well out of the mud and out of reach of snakes. An open,
slippery, wooden stair ascended to the doorway. The walls were of
mat, and the roof was of thatch. I am willing to believe that there
was a plank floor, though I have a vague impression that we trod on
split bamboos. The house consisted of one fairly large room, divided
into two by a mat partition reaching nearly to the unceiled roof.
One part was the bedroom, with a bathroom attached, the other was a
combined dining- and drawing-room. Tacked on was one more room, about
the size of a three-berth cabin. This was the study or library. Having
mosquito netting over door and windows, it was habitable even after
sunset. During our sojourn, Government very kindly began to build a
nice new house for us. It was our Promised Land, of which we had but a
Pisgah-sight. We watched its progress with interest, often visiting
the work and suggesting small improvements. We were transferred about a
week before it was finished. I slept in it once, twenty years after.
Pantanaw was a depot for Ngapi, that malodorous compound of decayed
fish in which Burmans delight. The public buildings were a courthouse
with a police-station hard by, a hospital, a schoolhouse, and a
bazaar, or market. The rest of the town consisted of native houses of
fishermen, traders, and brokers. In the dry weather, the foreshore
was covered with huts. Bitter and ceaseless were the disputes between
brokers and traders about claims to hut-sites on the sands. The streets
were causeways of loose bricks. Except through the town itself, we had
one walk, over one of these brick paths to the Burmese cemetery. The
whole subdivision supported one pony. He lived in ease and affluence,
as you could not ride for half a mile without coming upon an impassable
stream. We were the only European inhabitants. Two other people spoke
English, a Jew shopkeeper named Cohen, whom Burmans, not holding him
in high respect, preferred to call Maung Hein,[31] and an Arakanese
schoolmaster, with whom I maintained an intermittent acquaintance
to the end of my service. Our nearest English neighbours were the
subdivisional officer of Yandoon and his wife, who on one red-letter
day paid us a flying visit. Our medical attendant was an Indian
hospital assistant, or as now he would be called more appropriately,
Sub-assistant surgeon, a very capable, good man. The civil surgeon
lived at Maubin, the district headquarters, a day’s journey off. To
young civilians of the present time, this would seem an impossible
place for a man with a wife and child. We enjoyed life and were happy.
The experience was of use to me, years afterwards, as secretary, when
young officers complained of their posting by the Chief Commissioner to
remote and unpopular stations. Even the young wife could not be played
with effect. But I believe I got myself disliked.
My official colleague was the subdivisional police officer, Maung
Shwe O, Inspector, afterwards Assistant Superintendent. He was a very
smart, good-looking man, whose subsequent career was distinguished.
I maintained friendly relations with him as long as I stayed in
Burma. The clerks in my office were Burmans, who spoke and wrote only
Burmese. Very capable and efficient were many of these vernacular
clerks, thoroughly versed in office routine and management, and well
educated in their own language. My head clerk, Maung Shwe Tha, was a
man of presence and dignity, with, it was said, a trace of French blood
in his veins. The Circle Thugyi still, I hope, survives in honoured
retirement. His son became one of the most useful members of the
Provincial Service.
The subdivision was of very large extent. Comprising the townships of
Pantanaw and Shwelaung, it stretched past Kyunpyathat to the sea. At
Shwelaung there was a Myo-ôk, but at Pantanaw I was my own township
officer. I had to try all civil and criminal cases, to copy English
correspondence, and to do the revenue and executive work of the
township. Though during my year at Pantanaw I had only second class
powers as a magistrate, still, without a Myo-ôk at headquarters, and
with all these various duties, it might be supposed that I was grossly
overworked. On the contrary, I had an easier time there than ever after
fell to my lot. Still young and zealous, I believe I did all there
was to be done. But I found time to be on tour about half of every
month, while in the cold weather I spent more than a solid month in the
jungle, walking over rice-fields, inspecting, measuring, and computing
the out-turn of every holding in respect of which remission of revenue
was claimed. As there had been a somewhat widespread failure of the
rice crop, this was a task of some magnitude. The development of the
country and the growth of work are impressed on me by nothing so much
as by a comparison between the Pantanaw subdivision in 1879-80 and
the same area in the present day. Then, with the help of one not very
efficient Burmese Myo-ôk, I did all the work of the subdivision with
ease. Now that area is a large part of the Ma-u-bin and Myaung-my̆a
districts. It occupies half the time of a Deputy Commissioner and
District Judge, and half the time of one or two subdivisional officers,
who break down in succession from overwork, four or five township
officers, and several judicial and additional Myo-ôks. The Shwelaung
Township is now the Wakèma Subdivision, one of the most laborious
charges in the Province. A very small, obscure, and swampy village was
Mawlamyainggyun, now the headquarters of a township, and one of the
most flourishing towns in the Delta. I have always cherished the belief
that I was the first European official to discover it.
In those days and in that part of the country there was a remarkable
absence of serious crime. During my year at Pantanaw one murder was
committed and one dacoity was reported. Of the dacoity I made a full
meal. The report reached me when on tour in the middle of the rains.
Off I went in a small open dugout to make an investigation on the spot.
Arriving, drenched to the bones, with no kit, I held the inquiry, clad
in a bath towel, reclining in the balcony of a Burmese hut, partly
sheltered by a mat-wall. I fared sumptuously on boiled eggs, rice, and
jaggery (palm sugar), fare, which I commend, as, if not noble, yet
enough. A mat on a plank floor was a sufficient sleeping-place. I never
found any difficulty in sleeping on boards. The really hard bed is the
bosom of mother earth with too scanty an allowance of straw. The report
of the dacoity was false.
At Pantanaw I learned to talk Burmese with fluency, if not with
accuracy, and to read it with ease. I had to talk it or be silent half
my days. And all office work had to be done in the vernacular. But
too early and too long a stay in the Secretariat and constitutional
indolence prevented me from acquiring a profound or scholarly
knowledge of the language. Up to a certain point Burmese does not
seem to me abnormally difficult. The written character, though at
first sight it looks impossible, is much easier than, for example,
Urdu script. But the attainment of real proficiency is a laborious
task. The want of good literature is a discouragement at the outset.
For, as a literary medium, Burmese is singularly defective. According
to one of the best authorities, the high-water mark of Burmese prose
is reached in the State papers of the Hlut-daw.[32] As if one should
seek for models of prose in Blue-Books. A wealth of idioms, a chaotic
grammar,[33] a variety of delicate accents, combine to bewilder the
student. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, most of our officers have
a good knowledge of the spoken and written language, and some are
finished scholars. One thing all can do: all can read petitions and
other vernacular papers, and are less in the hands of clerks than
officers are understood to be in other Provinces.
Here, too, I had opportunities of learning in practice something
about two of the main sources of revenue, land and fisheries. Though
the Land and Revenue Act, recently brought into operation, is not
the most lucid of statutes, the land-revenue system is free from
complexity. Its chief merits were sweetness and simplicity,[34] as an
ingenious printer tried to make the Burma Government plead for its
transliteration scheme. The State was the landlord. It was, then, an
article of faith that there were no tenants in Burma, that every man
cultivated his own moderate holding. Though not literally, this was
for a long time approximately true. In the Delta land was to be had
in abundance, and Burmans and Karens for the most part cultivated
their own farms. A constant and sufficient rainfall and a fertile soil
combined to yield a rich harvest. Regular settlements were not begun
till a year or two later. Meanwhile the rates of land revenue were
absurdly low. Each holding was supposed to be measured yearly by the
Circle Thugyi, who had no training in surveying. The Thugyi gathered
in the revenue of his Circle and received a liberal commission on the
collections. If crops failed or were destroyed by drought, floods, or
rats, generous remissions of revenue were granted after inspection
by the subdivisional or township officer, or, where large sums were
involved, by the Deputy Commissioner himself. When I hear urged against
the proposed nationalization of land the consideration that the State
would be an austere landlord, requiring its dues each year without pity
or indulgence, I cannot help remembering that it was far otherwise in
Burma. It may be, however, that in other countries the system would not
be worked by a Service whose members from their youth up are trained
to sympathize with the people, to regard as their title to respect
the name of the cherisher of the poor. Besides land revenue, the only
tax paid by the cultivator was capitation tax. This was paid by all
sorts and conditions of men, except the aged and infirm, at the rate
of Rs. 5 for a married man, and Rs. 2/8 for a bachelor. It was a crude
and unscientific tax, falling equally on rich and poor. But it was a
light burden, and crushed no one. The standard of living among Burmans
and Karens in the Delta was moderately high. Luxuries were few, but
comforts were universal. Walking over miles of rice-fields in familiar
talk with Thugyis and farmers, I became acquainted with the conditions
of the cultivators, and I laid the foundation of lasting esteem and
affection for the people.
My subdivision included many of the great fisheries of the Delta. All
the streams and creeks were divided into fisheries, which were sold
by auction once a year. The Court House would be filled with bidders,
all fishermen, and the bidding was often reckless. The large fisheries
sold for substantial sums, the total annual revenue being about five
lakhs of rupees. Inspection of fisheries and examination of the methods
of working were among the subdivisional officer’s duties. Fishermen
destroy living creatures, and by good Buddhists are held to be children
of perdition. But they enjoy life, regardless of the doom in store. A
visit to one of the great fishing villages was an agreeable incident,
pleasantly varying the monotony of official routine. The whole village
turned out in boats to welcome us. Boats paddled by girls in bright
attire, carrying troupes of dancers gracefully posturing, crowded the
stream in picturesque profusion. Races between canoes filled with
crowds of shouting paddlers went on throughout the day. At night would
be presented a pwè, or many pwès. Pwè is one of the hardest worked of
Burmese words, and represents perhaps the most characteristic feature
of the country. In its best-known sense it means an entertainment,
usually dramatic, or of the nature of a ballet. But a race also is a
pwè, and so, singularly enough, is an examination or a Durbar. The
legitimate drama is a puppet-show, the dolls being cleverly worked by
strings from behind the stage, and the dialogue hoarsely recited by the
manipulator with hardly an attempt at ventriloquial effect. Less highly
esteemed by Burmese connoisseurs is a drama played by real actors and
actresses. The stock characters are the prince, the princess, and
the clown. The princess, unabashed, arranges her hair, makes up her
cheeks and eyebrows, and even manages to change her dress in view of
the assembly. The clown, by boisterous and often indecorous jest,
raises peals of merriment. The ballet pwè is a set of posture dances,
performed either by one, two, or three girls, or by groups, generally
of girls, sometimes of young boys. Dancing is accompanied by choric
songs, often topically composed for the occasion. If distinguished
visitors are present, the choral song is written to honour and welcome
them. The orchestra consists of drums, gongs, cymbals, and other
barbarous instruments placed in a circle round the agile executant. In
bygone days no charge was made for admission. That was an essential
condition. Now I hear with horror of so-called pwès played in
enclosures where money is taken at the door. A pwè lasted for hours.
Almost invariably it was performed in the open air, under the moonlit
sky, the spectators, men, women, children, and babies, sitting on mats,
smoking cheroots, enthralled from dusk to dawn. For my part I liked
best the ballet, danced by groups of young girls, daughters of the
town or village, and after that the drama played by human actors and
actresses. But I must admit that in a puppet-show the comic white horse
gaily prancing over the boards was a joy which never failed. During my
year at Pantanaw I was a welcome guest at many pwès, none of which I
attended with greater pleasure than a ballet danced by the girls of a
large fishing village.
All our travelling was by water. There was not a steam-launch in
the Delta. Even the Deputy Commissioner did all his journeys in a
rice-boat. Such a luxury as a houseboat had not been designed even
in a vision. An officer going on tour hired a fairly large boat with
three or four rowers, and with a helmsman (pènin) perched aloft in the
stern. Often one had the same boat and crew for successive journeys.
My pet pènin was a man of authority (awza) and presence, traditionally
reputed to be an ex-dacoit. I hope he did not relapse in the troubles
which came a few years later. The forepart of the boat was for the crew
and servants. The after-deck, covered by an arched roof of bamboo,
formed a chamber sufficiently roomy wherein was space to sit or lie but
not to stand upright. Privacy was secured by arrangements of kalagas
(curtains). In such a boat I travelled for a week, a fortnight, a month
at a time, halting at infrequent villages, interviewing headmen and
Thugyis, trying cases, and doing revenue and executive work. As a rule
I travelled alone, always unarmed and without a guard. No precautions
were needed in that time of profound peace, when we felt, and were,
secure from danger. Propelled by long oars, the boat moved generally
with the tide. But I have known Burmans row with, and against, the
tide for hours at a stretch, a fact which may surprise people taught
to regard the Burman as an idle fellow. He is neither idle nor lazy.
When occasion demands, he will work as hard as anyone. The farmer and
fisherman each has seasons when he must rise up early and late take his
rest. What the Burman does not care to do is to make toil a pleasure;
to work merely for the sake of doing something or for the purpose of
amassing wealth beyond his needs. With a fertile country, with no
pressure of population on subsistence, with few wants, why should he
strive or cry? For him progress and the strenuous life in themselves
have no attraction. We are trying to teach him our ideals, to show him
how far superior is our civilization. When we shall have succeeded,
we shall have spoilt the pleasantest country and the most delightful
people in the world.
But let us resume our tour. By day or night, as the tide serves, our
boat moves on the bosom of the wide river or threads the windings of
narrow creeks. In the rains I have been rowed against a storm of
wind, in a shroud of thick darkness. Again, I have skirted miles of
forest-clad banks, each bush alive with myriads of fireflies, an
amazing and memorable sight. When villages were scarce, a halt would
be called and breakfast taken under the shade of a mighty tree on the
grassy margin of the stream. If we stayed at a village for a day or
two, our temporary home was a zayat, one of the many rest-houses built
by pious hands for the comfort of wayfarers. Every village had on its
outskirts at least one zayat, where the traveller could rest as long
as he pleased. With the help of a few kalagas and mats lent by the
villagers, a zayat could be made quite comfortable. It was somewhat
startling to have a snake drop from the thatched roof on to one’s
plate at chota haziri.[35] But such an unpleasing incident was rare.
Twice in the dry season I ventured to take my young family on tour,
and each time we were swamped by cataracts of abnormal rain. Once we
were putting up in a roomy zayat, when, soon after dark, a hurricane of
wind arose, and a deluge of rain began to fall. The kalagas were blown
in, and the baby almost blown out of his cot. We were rescued by the
headman, who came with a train of lantern-bearers, and hospitably bore
us off to his house. The rest of the night we spent under the family
mosquito-net, the family finding quarters elsewhere. The mosquito-net
was of stout opaque cloth, and covered the space of a fair-sized room.
My wife went no more on tour in the Delta.
[Illustration: BURMESE HOUSES.]
A pleasant interlude was an occasional visit to Father Bertrand at
his mission-station in a remote corner of the subdivision. It is a
common pose for the man of the world to profess to regard missionaries
with suspicion, if not dislike, and to hold native Christians in
abhorrence. My experience has led me far from these conclusions. The
longer I lived in the Province, the better I came to like, the more
to respect, missionaries, and the more esteem I felt for Burmese
and Karen Christians. The principal missionary bodies in Burma are
Anglicans, Roman Catholics, and American Baptists. Among all these I
have found valued friends. One of the most venerable personalities of
my early years was the saintly Bishop Bigandet, whose name will always
be held in reverence. Apart from the religious aspect, the educational
and civilizing value of mission-work cannot be overrated. Some of
the best schools and one of the only two colleges are maintained by
missions. Though Burmans generally adhere to their own creed, those
who have become Christians are for the most part men of good standing.
I do not think there are many bread-and-butter converts among them.
In an Upper Burman village I found a Christian headman, who told me
that his progenitors had been of the same faith. A mission, it was
said, had been established there in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and
the altar-fire had been kept alive for three centuries. It seemed a
creditable record. But the most abundant harvest of mission-work is
yielded by Karens. The heathen Karen, the missionaries call him, is
an uncouth, savage person. The Christian Karen, though lacking the
grace and charm of the Burman, is a law-abiding citizen, with many
sterling virtues. Even by Burmese officers it is recognized that
there is very little crime among Christian Karens. For this backward
race missionaries of all denominations have done a vast amount of
educating and civilizing work. Without wishing to make any invidious
distinction, I know nothing more praiseworthy than the devotion of
Catholic missionaries, who live ascetic lives in solitary places,
sacrificing the world to their vocation, subsisting on nothing a month,
and giving alms out of that wage. While on this subject, I may mention
the admirable work done among lepers by Catholic missions in Mandalay
and Rangoon. At each of these places is an asylum for these hapless
outcasts, where all the nursing and attendance are done by nuns and
sisters. The devotion of these gentle ladies is beyond all words of
reverence. Another excellent Catholic foundation is the Home of the
Little Sisters of the Poor in Rangoon. Here aged and helpless men and
women, without distinction of race or creed, are received and kept
in comfort. It is pleasant to record that the Home has been warmly
and liberally supported by a Burmese Buddhist, my worthy friend the
Honourable Maung Htoon Myat.
The memory of Father Bertrand has led me far from Pantanaw. Our first
year in a subdivision was full of novelty and variety, not of an
exciting kind, and perhaps not of interest except to ourselves. Though
I learned something of the people, my stay was too short. I have no
claim to intimate knowledge of the Delta, such as that of my successor,
Mr. de la Courneuve, or my lamented friend Colonel F. D. Maxwell,[36]
who knew every creek and channel, and, apparently, every man, woman,
and child, and who was the leading authority on all questions relating
to fisheries. While at Pantanaw I made the acquaintance of the
remarkable man who planned and executed the Irrawaddy Embankments,
the late Mr. Robert Gordon. The mere financial value of this colossal
undertaking to the people and to Government may be reckoned by millions
of pounds. The work has stood the test of time, and still remains a
monument of skill and foresight, and a source of enormous revenue.
In 1880 I spent a year in the Secretariat. After acting for a short
time as Assistant Secretary, I was retained as third man to prepare the
Annual Administration Report and see through the Press the departmental
Reports and Resolutions. My friend Mr. Burgess was acting as Secretary,
the Junior Secretary was Mr. E. S. Symes,[37] one of the most brilliant
men of his time. He became in succession Secretary, Chief Secretary,
and Commissioner. When the highest prizes of the Service were within
his grasp, a career of great distinction was prematurely ended in
melancholy circumstances early in the year 1901. _Sunt lacrimæ rerum._
Whatever of Secretariat work I knew, I learned from Mr. Burgess and Mr.
Symes. The Chief Engineer and Public Works Secretary was Colonel Colin
Scott-Moncrieff.[38] This year, Mr. Aitchison went to Council, and was
succeeded by Mr. C. E. Bernard.[39] One of the last civilians from
Haileybury, a nephew of John and Henry Lawrence, Mr. Bernard came to
Burma with a great reputation. After serving for a short time under Sir
John Lawrence in the Punjab, and later with unprecedented distinction
in the Central Provinces under Sir Richard Temple and in Bengal under
Sir George Campbell, he became Secretary to Sir Richard Temple’s Famine
Commission, and then Secretary to Government in the Home Department.
He was much trusted by Lord Ripon, with whose political opinions he
sympathized. To him, I believe, is mainly due the wide extension
of Municipal Administration in India. This, perhaps, can hardly be
regarded as his title to fame.
In the period covered by my recollections Mr. Bernard holds a foremost
place, and will be often in the story. He was one of those rare souls
who are the salt of the earth. Bearing, I believe, in appearance some
likeness to John, in character he was akin to Henry Lawrence. Deeply
and sincerely in sympathy with the people, despising the gaud and
glitter which some regard as essential in dealing with Orientals,[40]
hating the shadow of injustice or harshness, his sole desire was to
do his duty to the utmost of his strength. His kindly consideration
was no mark of weakness. On occasion he could be stern and unbending.
He exacted, as he yielded, obedience. Combining with the finest moral
and intellectual qualities eminence in all manly pursuits, he stands
forth as an ideal figure among the men who have built up the Indian
Empire. No more chivalrous, high-minded gentleman ever served the
Crown. As an administrator, his knowledge of detail, his extraordinary
memory, his power of rapid work, were almost unparalleled. It is
ungracious to suggest even minor defects in one to whom I owe so much
and who inspired in those privileged to be near him all reverence
and affection. It may be that impatience of delay and of any failure
from the best led him to do the work of his subordinates and that
sometimes his judgment erred. But what nobility of soul, what zeal for
righteousness, what effacement of self, what courage and resolution,
what fervent, unaffected piety! Twenty years later, when mourned by
all good men, Sir Charles Bernard had long gone to his rest, his widow
was again in Burma. On the eve of her departure, entirely of their own
initiative, representative Burmans of Rangoon brought her an address
and a piece of Burmese silver-work as a token of respect for her
husband’s memory.[41]
No one but Mr. Pepys could make interesting the record of daily
journeys to the Secretariat and the compilation of Blue-Books. Let
it suffice to say that we established a precedent by observing
the prescribed date for the issue of the Administration Report, a
gloomy volume which no one save the compiler of Moral and Material
Progress has ever been known to read. Mr. Regan, the indefatigable
Superintendent of the Government Press, who never once failed in any
undertaking, or in the fulfilment of a promise, risked his life in
a sampan and hurled the copies for India on to the mail-boat a few
minutes before she left her moorings at midnight. The Report was not
lightened by the statement that “a little tasteful carving relieves the
baldness of some of our police officers.” That was not the fault of the
printer.