_BURMESE RELIGIOUS INSTITUTIONS AND USAGES._
The Burmans, like most nations of the East, are essentially a religious
people, and pay great regard to the religious usages and institutions in
which they have been brought up.
Chief amongst these is the monastic institution of Buddhism. Buddha was
not only a great philosopher and thinker, but a great organiser too, and
he provided in the monastic system a social bond of union that knits
the entire community together in the Buddhist faith. This is made more
obvious by the fact that every male Burman must be a monk at some time in
his life, for a longer or shorter period, otherwise the demerit attaching
to him would so overbalance his merits, as to render it impossible for
him ever to make any improvement in his future existences. His ill deeds
would swell the sum of his demerits, but no act of charity or pious
devotion would be recorded to his advantage. Hence, in Upper Burma,
almost every youth dons the yellow robe and becomes a monk. It may be
for a week, a month, or a season or two, or it may be for many years,
or it may prove to be lifelong. The longer they stay in the monastery
the more sanctity attaches to them. But the Buddhist monk, unlike some
other monks, is at liberty to terminate his monastic vows at pleasure,
and return to ordinary life. The monks reckon the continuance of their
monastic condition by the number of _Wahs_ spent in the monastery, the
_Wah_ being the annual recurrence of a kind of Buddhist Lent, extending
from July to October.
This recruiting of the monks from the entire population—so different
from Hinduism, which acknowledges a rigidly exclusive, priestly
caste—immensely strengthens the hold Buddhism has on the people, and
widens the popular basis upon which it rests. In my missionary life
amongst the Hindus in Ceylon, I have observed in reading and expounding
the parable of “The Good Samaritan” to a heathen congregation, a great
readiness to apply, of their own accord, the cases of the Priest and the
Levite, who passed by on the other side, to their own Brahmin priests,
and they were always ready to take sides against them as quite a separate
caste; but there can never be the same alienation between monks and laity
in a Buddhist land like Burma, where the monks are their own kith and kin.
The monasteries are very extensively spread over the country. Mandalay,
at the time of the annexation, was officially stated to have close upon
6,000 monks, and you can visit scarcely any town or village, however
small or remote, which has not its monastic establishment. The monastery
is always the best building in the place, and has the cleanest enclosure
of any house in the village, and there is an air of sanctity and repose
about it. The monks are very approachable. The stranger, whether native
or foreigner, is always made welcome; indeed, that is a characteristic of
the Burmans everywhere, that they receive strangers freely and affably,
and being free from those caste scruples so usual amongst the Hindus, one
is not for ever fearful of transgressing their notions of propriety, or
unwittingly hurting their dignity. As the monasteries are spacious, and
often supplied with additional _zayats_ or rest-houses, it will rarely
happen in travelling that they will be unable or unwilling to assign the
stranger some humble place of rest, where he may tie up his pony, eat
his food, and spread his mat and pillow for the night. To the poor and
destitute the monastery is a place of relief, where they can always hope
to obtain a little food out of that which is daily given to the monks in
their house to house morning visits.
It must be frankly admitted that the monasteries of the country do a
useful work in the way of imparting elementary education. To them is
chiefly due the creditable fact that there are comparatively few of the
men who cannot read and write; and this does much to bind the people to
the support of the Order. But the education scarcely ever goes beyond
the most elementary stage. They learn to read Burmese, and they learn
to repeat a few Pali prayers and forms of devotion. Pali is the sacred
language; very few even of the monks understand the meaning.
On the other hand, the monks’ life is a very idle one. They live in
perfect ease, all their wants are supplied by the people, and they are
not expected to work at all, except some of them at teaching. There are
usually far more of them in the monastery than are required for that
purpose, so that they spend a vast amount of idle time, and it is thought
by many that the indolent, easy-going habits, and the lack of discipline
and enterprise the Burmans display as a nation, is largely owing to the
idle life of the monastery, which is continually before their eyes, for
there they receive their teaching when young.
The Buddhist monk is not a minister of religion in our sense. He has no
pastoral charge. He is for himself, and for his own deliverance, and the
merit he acquires he shares with nobody. He may occasionally be called to
attend this or that function, when the presence of a monk is customary,
or he may expound the law occasionally, if he so choose, reciting some of
the sacred writings for that purpose; but he undertakes no responsibility
for the guidance of the souls of others. In Buddhism a man must save
himself, and nothing that a monk or any one else may do can alter the
balance of his merits and demerits. Even if the monk be summoned to the
couch of a dying man, as he is sometimes, it is not that he may speak
words of consolation, or offer him the comforts of religion. It is merely
that the presence of the holy man may drive away the evil spirits that
would be liable to haunt the place on such an occasion.
The habits of the monastic Order are very simple. In the morning, after
the few Pali prayers have been uttered, the monks invariably go forth
through the village, attended by the boys carrying the alms-bowls, to
collect their daily food from the people. Not that they beg. There is
no occasion for that. Their rules forbid them to ask; and in going from
door to door amongst their own people they do not ask. But privately,
I must own, I have found occasionally amongst the Buddhist monks of
my acquaintance some of the most arrant cadgers I ever met with. Few,
indeed, are the matrons who do not put something in the way of food
in the alms-bowl. Nor do they thank the people for what they receive.
They would never think of doing so. In fact, the obligation is all on
the other side. The monks are conferring a favour by giving the people
the opportunity to do this work of high merit by means of their alms. A
useful hint, by the way, to collectors for good and useful objects in
England!
In their walks abroad, and in the performance of such functions as bring
them into mixed companies, many of the monks carry a large palm-leaf fan
in their hands, in order that, as celibate ascetics, they may shut off
the sight of feminine charms from their eyes.
The education given at the monasteries is very poor, but the acquisition
of any learning at all by the children is a matter for wonder, when we
consider how poor the instruction is. What they do succeed in learning
is not so much by means of teaching, as we understand it, but is almost
entirely due to the system of noisy repetition of the lessons, at the
full pitch of their voices in unison, in which all the children engage,
the elder ones leading, and the younger following. For this reason the
little learning imparted at these schools is of a mechanical sort, and
lacks intelligence. Arithmetic is very low indeed. Geography, if taught
at all, must of course square with the orthodox Buddhist cosmogony; and
as there is much that is doubtful about that, it is perhaps best left
alone, and is accordingly. Burmese history is abundant in quantity, but
in quality it only consists of what we call fiction, and has but a poor
foothold upon fact, and is left out of the curriculum. All other branches
of study are unknown, except a little of Pali in the form of devotions,
which, however, is mostly taught in mere parrot fashion.
[Illustration: “THERE THE PEOPLE ASSEMBLE OF AN EVENING, AND ARE TO BE
SEEN IN THE OPEN SPACE AROUND THE PAGODA, ON THEIR KNEES IN THE OPEN AIR,
REPEATING THEIR DEVOTIONS IN PALI.”]
The Director of Public Instruction in Burma told me a good story of his
first visit to Mandalay. He had been calling on the great _Thathanabine_
or Buddhist Archbishop of Burma, and had sought to impress upon that
venerable ecclesiastic the desirability of improving the education given
at the monastery schools. He mentioned arithmetic and geography as very
desirable subjects to be taught, offering to supply teachers already
trained and able to teach them. One of the attendant monks, an elderly
brother of the yellow robe, remarked that for his part he could not see
any great need for learning geography, especially now that the English
Government had been good enough to construct a railway. “If you want to
go anywhere all you have to do is to take your ticket and get into the
train.” Where was the use of learning geography?
The honour paid to the monks by the people is quite extraordinary. In the
Burmese language the commonest acts of life as performed by the monks are
spoken of with respectful expressions, which are never applied to similar
acts as done by the common people. The oldest layman honours the youngest
monk, and gives place to him. The ordinary posture before a monk is down
on their knees, and often on their elbows also, with the palms of the
hands joined together, and raised as if in supplication, and the title
“_Paya_” is used—the very name which has to do duty for the deity.
An instance is on record of a venerable monk being called from Mandalay
to settle a dispute between two parties concerning some religious
point, in a town on the banks of the Irrawaddy. On his arrival the
whole population lined both sides of the path up to the monastery, and
kneeling, they loosed down their long black hair, for the men as well as
the women wear it long, and spread it across the path, so that he walked
all the distance from the river bank to the monastery on human tresses.
The pagodas are the ordinary resorts of the people as places of worship;
not all of them, however, for the great majority are merely erected as
works of merit, and never attain any celebrity as places of worship;
only the chief and most notable shrines. There the people assemble of
an evening, and are to be seen in the flagged open space around the
pagoda, on their knees in the open air, repeating their devotions in
Pali. Though many of them come together, it is not of the nature of
congregational worship, nor is any one appointed to lead their devotions.
It is each one for himself. There is no prayer in our sense of that
term, that is, petition. With no God to address, what place is there
for prayer? Buddhism knows no higher being than the Buddha, and he is
gone, twenty-four centuries ago, into Nirvana. The sentences they utter
in Pali consist of expressions in praise of Buddha, the Law, and the
Monastic Order. Images of Buddha are extensively used, but for all that,
the people can hardly be called idolaters. The burning of candles and of
incense at worship time is customary.
The Burmese “duty days,” of which there are four in the month, are
observed on the eighth of the crescent, the full, the eighth of the
waning, and the change of the moon. These are kept more strictly as
worship days during what is called the _Wah_ than at any other time.
That is the period from July to October, which is observed as a time of
special fasting and solemnity, ever since the days of their founder,
who used to spend this, the rainy season, when travelling about in
India is scarcely practicable, in retirement and meditation. During the
_Wah_ there is a cessation of all festivities, and of the theatrical
performances of which the Burmans are so fond.
At the end of the _Wah_ there is a time of general rejoicing. For some
days before amusements are observed to be in progress in the streets.
Effigies of animals, very well executed, are carried about. Here a
buffalo of gigantic size, made of some light material, cunningly finished
and coloured to the life, with horns and hide and all complete, is seen
walking about on two pairs of human legs, the said legs being clad in the
very baggy dark trousers worn by the Shans; its head balanced so as to
swing with the walk in a most realistic and natural manner.
Yonder, in the Chinese temple, a huge pasteboard demon is seen disporting
himself, with head of frightful aspect and enormous size, and body of
cloth. You may freely walk in; and as you look around and admire the
excellence of the building and the expensive and choice furniture, lamps
and decorations, you may also see the huge creature writhing about, with
all manner of contortions, to the deafening din of drums and the clash
of cymbals. Somehow Orientals seem to be able to combine amusement
with devotion. My three little children who have walked in with me,
scared almost out of their wits with the noise, and still more with the
portentous sight of the demon, promptly take to their heels and rush out
of the temple, and cannot be induced to return, so I go out in search
of them. At the corner of the next street an enormous representation of
a tiger, ten times life size, in teeth and claws complete, and with a
most ferocious aspect, has been glaring at the passers-by for some days.
And, as you look, here comes a rude likeness of a gigantic lady ten feet
high, who, however, seems to move along very ungracefully, and bows very
stiffly in acknowledgment of the cheers of the crowd. The Chinese are
particularly fond of getting up a very brilliantly executed figure of a
serpent, in great splendour and in very bright colours, many yards long,
which is borne high overhead through the streets on these occasions, with
quite a procession. This particular show seems to afford scope for high
art in representing the wrigglings of the monster as it is carried along.
But this is all only preparatory to the festival called _Wah-gyoot_
(literally “the release from the Wah”). It is a festival of lights. For
three nights the whole city of Mandalay is one blaze of illumination.
Every house has its complement of candles or oil lamps; the rich in
keeping with their means, and the poor according to their poverty. At
that season the air is still, there is little or no wind, all the lights
are out of doors and burn brightly. The streets are lit up with candles
at every ten paces; the pagodas are effectively illuminated with hundreds
of lights far up into their spires. Little children are trundling
extemporised carts with bamboo wheels, each carrying a tiny illumination,
covered with a lamp of thin, coloured paper. In addition to the house
illuminations, paper lanterns are quite the fashion in China Street,
where the well-known ingenuity of John Chinaman produces fantastic shapes
in various colours, representing sundry animals, fishes, ships and what
not. On the great river, as soon as it grows dark, the villagers row out
into the middle of the stream and set adrift multitudes of oil lamps,
each fastened to a little float of bamboo or plantain stem. Thousands of
them are sent out by each village, so that the whole Irrawaddy is one
blaze of twinkling lights.
Another very prominent and popular festival of the Burmans is the Water
Feast, which occurs at their New Year in April. For two or three days
at that time “the compliments of the season” consist in walking up to
you in the street, or even in your own house, and discharging a jar of
clean water over you, with the expression, “I will do homage to you with
water”; and it would be considered very bad form to show any resentment
for this kind and polite attention. It is obvious that such a custom as
this must afford great scope to the rollicking Burmans of both sexes. It
leads to abundance of larking and merriment in the streets. Everybody who
ventures forth stands a great chance of a thorough drenching. Fortunately
it occurs in April, the time of the sun’s greatest power, and the
sweltering heat renders it less of an inconvenience than it would be in a
colder climate.
There is nothing the Burmans are more scrupulous about than the taking
of life. A mother has been seen to pick up the scorpion that stung her
child, between two pieces of bamboo, and merely drop it gently outside
the door. Twice when I have found a deadly cobra lurking about the house
where the children were playing—the most venomous of snakes, whose bite
is death—and have asked a Burmese servant to help me to kill it, he has
declined, and I have had to kill it myself. But though the Burman will
not kill a snake, he will not scruple to take it home to cook and eat it
after some other person has killed it. Animal food seldom comes amiss to
them, whether it has been killed by another or has died of itself. They
are not very choice in their food.
Mandalay swarms with thousands of half-starved, mangy, miserable
animals—nobody’s dogs. No matter how they increase and multiply, no
Burman is willing to “put them out of their misery”; the firm belief in
transmigration prevents this. I have known half a dozen such dreadful
creatures quarter themselves uninvited on the Mission premises. One of
the half-dozen, a savage brute, living under the school on the Mission
premises, one day bit a little Burman boy, and tore his bare arm very
badly. This was too much for me. Fearing it might do further mischief,
and might even be mad, I waylaid and shot it. The Burmans thought I had
done very wrong. Their tender care for animals often appears in touching
forms. I have noticed a Burman coolie engaged in mixing mortar, on
finding he had brought a number of tadpoles from the neighbouring pond
in his bucket of water, take them all out with great care, and carry
them back to the pond, though it was 150 yards away and he had to go on
purpose. And yet, so strangely inconsistent is human nature, there are
perhaps few countries in the world, with any pretensions to civilisation,
where human life is held so cheap as in Burma, and where the people
have commonly such a propensity to the crime of dacoity or robbery
with violence, and often with murder. And yet, again, with strange
inconsistency, the coarse and hardened criminal, the Burman dacoit, who
has imbrued his hands in his neighbour’s blood more than once, will
scruple to harm the vermin that infests his couch.
Some of the great Buddhist shrines in Burma are buildings of wonderful
magnificence. The Shwê Dagohn Pagoda at Rangoon is one of the most
important and sacred. It is considered to be over two thousand years old.
Originally it was very small, but now it rises to a height of 370 feet,
or a little higher than St. Paul’s Cathedral, and is a quarter of a mile
in circumference at the base. It is situated on the top of a very high
hill, of which the summit has been, at vast labour and expense, made into
a level platform, and carefully paved. This immense platform is partly
occupied by many smaller pagodas, resting places for worshippers, and
chapels containing colossal images of Buddha; and considerable open space
is left for the immense crowds of worshippers that assemble there. In the
centre rises the great pagoda in the usual bell shape, one vast, solid
mass of masonry terminating in a spire. Four flights of stone steps lead
up from the plain beneath, one on each side of the hill. On the summit
of the pagoda is the _htee_, or gilt iron framework in the form of an
umbrella, with multitudes of gold and silver bells, richly bejewelled,
which tinkle with every passing breeze. The _htee_ was presented by
King Mindohn, the father of King Theebaw, and cost £50,000. The pagoda
itself with the adjacent buildings must have cost, from first to last,
a fabulous sum. This pagoda, like many others of the principal ones,
is covered with pure gold leaf. Every few years it has to be regilt.
Sometimes this has been done by some particular king, as a great work of
merit. One king is said to have spent his own weight of gold upon it.
In 1887 there was a regilding by public subscription. The accounts when
published showed an expenditure of some £9,000; and this money, be it
known to all Christians, was raised at once, without leaving any debt
for the next generation to defray. And not only so, but it was raised in
money actually contributed directly for this purpose. There was no need
to resort to any of the well-known, artful, coaxing methods of raising
funds, which have to be adopted in more civilised countries. There was
not even a bazaar, not even a raffle! I have no hesitation in stating
that it is my belief that Buddhists spend on their religion, in edifices,
on the support of the monks, and on other works of charity, much more per
head in proportion to their means than the average of Christians spend on
theirs.
Another remarkable thing about the Shwê Dagohn Pagoda is its bell, 14
feet high, 7½ feet across, and weighing 42 tons, the third largest
bell in the world. This bell has a history. After the second Burmese
war in 1853, the English made an attempt to carry it off as a trophy
to Calcutta, but ere they shipped it the monster toppled over into the
Rangoon river, and sank to the bottom. With the appliances then at hand
they were unable to get it up again. After a time the Burmans made
request that they might have it.
Yes, they might have the bell _if they could get it_.
They succeeded in raising it out of the river, and hauled it back in
triumph to the position it occupies to-day.
[Illustration: GREAT BELL AT THE MENGOHN PAGODA.]
When great shrines like this exist in Burma, on such a vast scale and
with such splendour, it is not much to wonder at if there should be some
specimens of unfinished and abortive undertakings, by which the kings
of Burma, in their ambition to obtain great merit and a name, sought
to equal or excel the great shrines of antiquity, but which had to be
relinquished because the resources, even of despotic kings, are not
unlimited. Such a one is the great unfinished Mengohn Pagoda, which is
built in a pleasant spot on the right bank of the Irrawaddy, about nine
miles above Mandalay. It is supposed that this must be the largest mass
of solid brickwork in the world, and it is now nearly a century old. It
covers a square of 450 feet, and has therefore an area of 4¾ acres. Its
height is 155 feet, which is much less than it would have been had it
gone on to completion. An Englishman, Captain Cox, was there, and saw
the beginning of this huge structure. He says in his book that there was
a great square chamber built in the basement of the pagoda as usual,
to receive the offerings of the king and the people, and amongst many
peculiarly Burmese and Buddhist articles, such as models of precious
relics in gold caskets, and gold and silver miniature pagodas and
images, the miscellaneous collection included an article of Western
manufacture—a soda-water machine, at that time almost as great a novelty
in England as it was in Burma. Close by this large unfinished pagoda
is the second largest bell in the world; the largest is at Moscow.
An earthquake, which occurred in 1839, cracked this enormous mass of
brickwork, and dislodged a portion of it; but so solid is it that it
would take many earthquakes utterly to destroy it.
Notwithstanding the failure to complete this gigantic enterprise, it
did not deter a later king, the father of King Theebaw, from attempting
a still larger and more ambitious effort. Four miles to the east of
Mandalay there was to have been erected the Yankeen-toung Pagoda, built
of stone quarried from the adjoining hill; and it was to have been larger
considerably than the unfinished Mengohn. The whole kingdom was laid
under contribution to furnish men to labour by turns, a few months at a
time, on this pious work.
After four years’ labour, so vast was the extent that the basement had
only reached a height of four feet. At this stage a French engineer was
called in to make an estimate and report upon it. His calculation was
that if 5,000 men worked every day on the building, it might at that rate
be finished in eighty-four years. It never went beyond the basement.
Since the annexation of Upper Burma, the practical British mind, finding
the Yankeen-toung stone eminently suitable for road-making, and seeing
that the roads in Mandalay, with its 188,000 people, were not, up to that
time, made of anything better than black clay, has devoted this stone,
intended for the pagoda, with which King Mindohn had purposed, so to
speak, paving his own way to Nirvana, to the humbler, but more generally
useful enterprise of mending the people’s ways about the town.