_THE BURMANS._
Of the forty or more different races and tribes dwelling in Burma and
on its frontiers, the Burmans are the leading race: first, in point of
numbers, for they far exceed any of the others; also as regards position
and advantages, for they naturally, as the leading race, have come to
occupy all the best and most fertile soil, all the tracts of country
lying between the great mountain ranges, the valleys of the Irrawaddy and
the Chindwin rivers; and still more in respect of their prestige, for
they have long been the ruling race of this region, and their language
is far more widely diffused than any other. Most of the other indigenous
races of Burma, as we have seen, are demon worshippers, uncivilised,
without a written language, and with many and wide diversities from the
Burmans. The Burmans, however, have an ancient civilisation, an elaborate
religious system, a philosophy and a literature, and with regard to the
arts, handicrafts and conveniences of ordinary life, are quite on a par
with the Hindus. The present chapter applies to the Burman race.
The Burmans are of Mongolian origin, in common with the Chinese, Siamese
and other inhabitants of the Indo-Chinese peninsula. Their features
plainly show this, especially the almond-shaped eye, the slightly
flattened nose and the almost entire absence of hair on the faces of the
men. They are lighter in complexion than the majority of the natives of
India, and slightly browner than the Chinese.
They show a marked contrast in many respects to the races of India,
especially in the entire absence of caste. The king was the fountain of
all position in the country. He made and unmade nobles at his sole will
and pleasure, so that there is no hereditary rank or nobility. There is
also no priestly caste like the Brahmins of India; the Buddhist monks
are recruited from all classes, from the royal family downwards. Except
the pagoda slaves, a class doomed to hereditary servitude in connection
with the more important sacred shrines, and with a few other trifling
exceptions, the Burmans as a people have all the avenues of native life
and privilege open to them. This renders them less fastidious and more
approachable than the people of India, and does away with the withering,
blighting effects of caste. It renders them less conservative also, and
makes them more ready to take up new ideas.
The Burmese language, in common with the Mongolian languages generally,
is monosyllabic, each word consisting of one syllable. Of course the
progress of all languages tends to unite words, and in the majority
of languages this tendency has resulted in the original monosyllables
becoming so united and changed as to be not easily capable of separation.
But in Burmese and other monosyllabic languages very many names and words
are still of one syllable, and even where they are of two or three, each
syllable seems to show a sturdy vigour of its own, and a determination to
preserve its individuality complete, and not sink into the position of a
mere servant of its neighbours. In pronunciation or reading of Burmese
this appears in a marked degree; and in writing Burmese names one always
feels inclined to follow the pronunciation, and insert the hyphen between
the syllables. Even where there is any disposition of the syllables to
cleave together in the formation of words, in anything like a permanent
form, they readily fall asunder the moment they are touched for the
purpose of critical examination.
[Illustration: SPECIMEN OF BURMESE TYPE.]
To compensate for the convenience of expression afforded in most
languages by inflections, much is made in the Burmese of particles.
Indeed, the grammar of the language, which is very simple, consists
largely of the classification of the monosyllables that serve as
particles, and a great deal of variety of meaning is expressed by tones.
The alphabet is derived from the ancient Nagari, the common source
of the alphabets of many of the Indian languages, but the characters
themselves belong exclusively to the Burmese tongue, except that they
have been adopted for the Shan and Karen languages. The alphabet is
called the _them-bon-gyee_ or great basket of learning, and it well
deserves the name; for what with the 10 vowels, the 32 consonants, the
vowel-consonants to the number of 10 × 32, and a very numerous series
of characters to express many combinations of letters, it really is a
very great basketful indeed, and occupies 28 pages of a closely printed
pamphlet with the characters alone.
One of the difficulties to a foreigner in picking up the spoken language
is the Burmese custom of dropping the sound of the final consonants
of syllables. This is not, as it is with some English people, a bad
habit, but is sanctioned by the usage of the language. In the grammar of
the language some interesting features appear. Thus in many verbs the
intransitive is changed into the transitive by the mere aspiration of an
initial consonant: as _kya-thee_, to fall; _khya-thee_, to throw down,
or cause to fall; _loht-thee_, to be free; _hloht-thee_, to set free.
The adjective does not precede but follows the noun it qualifies. The
accusative is followed by the verb that governs it.
Burmese abounds with honorific expressions. First of all is the
ever-recurring ordinary honorific form _daw_, placed after nouns and
verbs, to indicate that the thing or action named has to do with some
person out of the common order. The first personal pronoun has three
distinct forms, so that a speaker is able, by choosing one or other of
these three, in a word, as it were, to place himself on an eminence
above, on an equality with, or in a position beneath the person he is
addressing; a great convenience, surely. What could the framers of our
own poor language have been thinking about, to neglect to secure for us
such an obvious advantage as that?
The second personal pronoun is even richer, for it counts no less than
six well-defined gradations of expression, not to mention several
more supernumerary forms, that may be employed if the regular forms
of the pronoun are not enough. By means of these the person addressed
may be treated with veneration, gently flattered, addressed with easy
familiarity, made to feel his relative littleness, scolded, or abused,
as occasion may require. And all this variety of expression in the mere
choice of the pronoun in the second person! What a language it must be in
the mouth of a competent person!
Again, with regard to “Yes,” our affirmative of assent, the Burmese
can vary its form, by means of well-sanctioned idioms in constant use,
from something equivalent to the American “That’s so,” through several
more and more polite affirmatives, up to “What you say is appropriate,
my Lord,” an expression reserved of course for the king, the monks,
some respectable European, or Burman of distinction. Where such various
expressions would sound very stilted in English, the Burmese idiom can
give them as ordinary forms of politeness. Thus again, the ordinary man
is said to “eat”; the monk “nourishes his body with the alms of the
pious”; but the king tops them all, for he “ascends to the lordly board.”
It is asserted of a man when he dies merely that he has “changed the
bawâ,” _i.e._, left one state of existence and gone into another; but in
the case of a monk we may safely go further and say, as the idiom does,
that he has “returned to the blissful seats”; the king, when he dies, is
politely said to have “ascended to the village of the _nats_” (beings
superior to men). These Oriental peculiarities of language and idiom
are interesting and amusing, and the frequent discovery of them, in the
course of his studies, does much to compensate the foreigner for the
drudgery involved in learning the language thoroughly, provided he is not
devoid of the sense of humour, and can appreciate them when he finds them.
But perhaps the chief oddity of the Burmese language to the foreigner
is the use of numeral auxiliaries. In using numbers you make quite a
business of it, by adding in the case of each of the things mentioned, a
special term descriptive of the class of things to which they belong. It
is on this wise: first, you name the things spoken of, then the number,
and finally the appropriate numeral auxiliary. Thus if you wish to say
“six dogs” you must put it in this form to be idiomatic, “dogs six
_living creatures_.”
Five horses = “horses five _beasts of burden_.”
Four men = “men four _rational beings_.”
Three monks = “monks three _highly respectable characters_.”
Two rupees = “rupees two _flat things_.”
Always to have to supply, on the spur of the moment, whilst speaking, the
correct classification of the objects named in making use of numbers,
seems to the foreigner a very needless and arbitrary demand, and so new
to him that, until he gets accustomed to it, he is constantly liable
to overlook it. The classification of things made in this way does not
extend, however, beyond some twenty-one categories. In addition to those
named there are things in a line, things in a circle, things long and
straight, things nearly round or cubical, things which are used as tools,
trees and plants (which class includes hair!), and some others. But
the classification of things provided for by the use of these numeral
auxiliaries is neither very scientific nor very complete, for the list
is soon exhausted; and when you come to such things as chairs, bedsteads
and a multitude of other things which come under none of the recognised
classes of things, they are all slumped under the head of “individual
things,” which is disappointing after the hopes raised of a complete
classification of all things.
Burmese literature is largely devoted to Buddhism. Of popular works the
most common are the _Zats_, stories of embryo Buddhas, and what they did
in their different births, before they arrived at that state. Here is
obviously much scope for fancy in tracing the buddings of their wisdom
and glory, and all their miraculous adventures and deliverances, together
with much about the _nats_ or spirits supposed to haunt the universe.
Christian literature is miserably meagre as yet, and there is much scope
and need for more. All Christian workers, and indeed all foreigners who
aim at learning Burmese, are deeply indebted to Dr. Judson, the first
missionary of the American Baptist Mission, for his excellent translation
of the whole Bible, and for his English-Burmese and Burmese-English
dictionaries, his Burmese grammar, and other minor works. To multitudes
in England and America Dr. Judson is famous for what he suffered; but
amongst those who know and can appreciate his literary work, that alone
is sufficient to entitle him to an imperishable fame.
[Illustration: “THE BUDDHIST MONASTERIES ARE FINE, SUBSTANTIAL ERECTIONS,
MASSIVE, SPACIOUS AND VERY RICH IN DECORATION.”]
Although there are in Burma so many pagodas, monasteries and other
religious buildings, which are fine, substantial erections, massive,
spacious and very rich in decoration, the dwellings of the people are,
as a rule, very poor in accommodation, and are of bamboo, the flimsiest
of material, and specially liable to destruction by fire. The posts
of the house are of teak, the floor is of bamboos, and raised from two
to six feet from the ground, the walls are of bamboo matting not much
thicker than stout brown paper, and the roof is of bamboo thatch. These
houses, though so slightly made, are warm enough for the climate. The
floor especially seems very frail to a stranger, made of half bamboos,
round side upwards, and lashed together with strips of cane. It gives
and sways under your feet as you walk over it in an alarming manner,
but the bamboos, though they bend, do not easily break. The Burmans
like that kind of a house. It is cool and airy. The floor shows a space
between each bamboo, and those spaces are particularly convenient for
an easy-going people. All kinds of miscellaneous things not required,
including scraps and remnants of food, can be dropped through the
floor, so that it requires no sweeping. The mighty host of ownerless,
homeless, starving dogs that roam over the town can be safely trusted to
find anything there is to eat, and they are not of dainty appetite. All
cooking has to be done outside the house, either in a separate building,
or more commonly in a little square hole dug in the ground for the
purpose, to prevent, if possible, sparks being blown about by the high
winds that prevail at certain seasons of the year.
Owing to the extremely inflammable nature of the buildings in Burma,
fires are of frequent occurrence, and are exceedingly destructive. In
addition to the ordinary risk from cooking fires and paraffin oil lamps,
the people are exceedingly careless in handling fire, and they are all
smokers. They smoke a kind of cigar made of chopped tobacco mixed with
some light woody substance, and enclosed in the outer leaf of the maize
cob, or some other leaf used for the same purpose, and these cigars drop
sparks in all directions. The end of the hot, dry season, in April and
May, when everything is like tinder, and when the high winds prevail, is
the most destructive time for fires, and every year at that time they
are of daily occurrence in Mandalay, and sometimes scores and sometimes
hundreds of bamboo houses are swept away. During the four years I have
lived in Mandalay I have known many large portions of the town destroyed
time after time.
The most destructive fires that have occurred since the annexation
took place on March 31st, 1892, and the following day. The first of
these fires originated in 27th Street, near the centre of the town.
Exceptionally high winds from the south carried the flames in a northerly
direction. All the wooden and bamboo buildings in front of the fire were
consumed in an incredibly short space of time. Very soon the flames
reached the central telegraph office, a new Government building that cost
about £2,000. The flames leaped across a very wide street, and destroyed
the office. The fire burnt its way through the town due north for two
miles, and ceased only when it had burnt itself out. There is a good
fire-engine establishment since the British rule, but fire-engines are of
no avail in a case like that.
The first great fire was still smouldering when, on the following day,
another broke out in the eastern town. It spread in the same way from
south to north about two miles. In the line of this fire, and extending
the whole way, were a series of remarkably fine monastery buildings,
including some of the finest in Burma, all built of teak, and covered
with decorative carving, and two of them covered with gold leaf within
and without. One of these monasteries was built by King Mindohn at a cost
of 16 lakhs of rupees; the entire loss caused by this one fire alone is
roughly estimated at 100 lakhs (say £600,000). The same day a third fire
broke out in the north end of the town, and destroyed several hundreds of
Burmese houses. This fire was caused by gross negligence, the sparks from
a Burmese cigar igniting some Indian corn. When these fires occur the
Burmans do not seem to concern themselves. They remove their household
goods if they have time, but make no real efforts to stem the progress
of the flames. Much valuable property is destroyed, but it is seldom any
lives are lost.
All Eastern nations pay great attention to the rules relating to the
degree of state and dignity such and such classes of the people may
assume. Amongst the Hindus the pariahs and other low castes are most
rigidly kept down, and the least sign of alteration for the better
in their dress, houses, or circumstances renders them liable to the
persecution of the higher castes. I have known in Ceylon amongst the
Hindus prolonged struggles between certain castes, involving serious
breaches of the peace, the point at issue being only this—whether a
certain caste of people ought or ought not to be allowed to carry
umbrellas at their weddings and on other special occasions. In the native
kingdom of Travancore, a few years ago, serious riots took place because
the women of a certain class of people known as the “slave caste,” having
come under the influence of the Gospel, desired to dress themselves with
something like decency, whereas the inexorable rule was that neither man
nor woman of that caste was to clothe the body above the waist or below
the knee.
In Burma, though there is no caste, the sumptuary laws were stringently
carried out. The title “Thootay” (rich man) was enjoyed only under royal
edict. For funerals five different degrees of rank were all minutely
laid down, and the state and show must be accordingly. The umbrella
question was regarded as a most vital and important one. In the matter
of the use of that great emblem of dignity minute directions were issued
and observed. Gilt umbrellas especially were only for the chosen few.
The white umbrella no one must assume but the king and the Lord White
Elephant. Under Burmese rule any one appearing in public under a white
umbrella would have had to answer for it. Where in English we should
say “the throne,” or “the crown,” as the emblem of royalty, in Burmese
literature it would be “the white umbrella and the palace.”
I remember on one occasion unwittingly making what, in Burmese times,
would have been a serious breach in my manners, and it shows how easy
it is to do that in an Eastern country. It was at Pagân, a town on the
Irrawaddy. Happening to be there one day when the Chief Commissioner of
Burma, the representative of our Queen-Empress, was expected, I went down
to the river bank, where many Burmans were assembled to see him, and do
him honour as he landed from the steamer. The day was bright and the sun
very hot, and as usual I put up an umbrella I always carried with me, of
the ordinary English alpaca, but with _a white cover_, for additional
protection from the sun’s rays. I saw the Burmans looking and making
remarks, but being in blissful forgetfulness that I was holding an
umbrella at the time, I never thought it referred to me, until suddenly
I remembered that there was I, in the presence of the representative
of royalty, assuming the white umbrella, and, according to Burmese
etiquette, guilty of something approaching to high treason! I hauled down
my flag _at once_.
The royal titles of the King of Burma were perhaps the most pompous and
pretentious of any monarch—“His most glorious and excellent Majesty, Lord
of the Tshaddau, King of Elephants, Master of many White Elephants, Lord
of the Mines of gold, silver, rubies, amber, and the noble serpentine,
Sovereign of the empires of Thuna-paranta and Tampadipa, and other great
empires and countries, and of all the Umbrella-wearing Chiefs, the
Supporter of Religion, the Sun-descended Monarch, Arbiter of Life, and
great King of Righteousness, King of Kings, and Possessor of Boundless
Dominion and Supreme Wisdom.”
As may be surmised from this lengthy and extravagant title that ancient
doctrine known as the divine right of kings was held in Burma out and
out, without the slightest qualification or limit. Every subject was the
king’s born slave, with no legal right to any property. The king was the
absolute master of the lives, the liberties, the property, and the very
labour of his subjects. There was little or no private ownership of land;
the land belonged to the king. The cultivators were merely the king’s
tenants, raising produce for his benefit, he graciously allowing them to
have some of the produce for their own support.
But there is a principle of compensation running through all human
affairs, and even absolute monarchs cannot have things all their own
way; and a throne is not always a bed of roses. The more grinding the
despotism the greater the danger of revolution. Hence the only real limit
to the power of the king was his dread of assassination, and this was
a very real and well-grounded fear, especially in the case of a ruler
like King Theebaw, with a faulty title and with no natural ability for
wielding power. The King of Burma was little better than a prisoner in
his own spacious palace and grounds, for he could scarcely ever leave
them, for fear of the palace, and the arsenal close by, being seized in
his absence by some pretender to the throne. If that should happen there
was small chance of his recovering them. The chief cause of the king’s
insecurity was the unbridled polygamy of the Burmese court. This resulted
in crowds of queens, princes and princesses, all possible claimants to
the throne, and it sometimes happened, as in the case of King Theebaw,
that there was no rest for him till most of them were put to death.
The Burmese Government was throughout characterised by oppression
and misrule. No fixed salaries were paid to officials, but princes,
ministers, queens, concubines and favourites were supported by the grant
of a province, and known by the title of “Myo-tsa” (province-eater), a
title which only too aptly indicated its own meaning. It was the policy
of the Myo-tsa to squeeze as much revenue as he could out of the people,
in order to pay the required amount at Mandalay and _to pay himself_.
Subordinate to the province-eater came the functionaries in charge of
circles of villages, and then of the individual villages; and in each
case it was the same thing, all intent on making as much as they could
out of it. This was with regard to the tax levied on each family or
house. The same primitive and essentially vicious methods applied to
the other items of taxation—viz., that on produce, fees on law cases,
and occasionally, extraordinary contributions to Government for special
needs—gave rise to the same kind of fleecing of the people. Towards the
end of King Theebaw’s reign things grew worse and worse. The sale of
monopolies became very common, and state lotteries for the benefit of the
revenue did great harm amongst a people naturally fond of gambling. When
at last Burmese rule came to an end it was a clearing away of much that
was rotten and hopelessly out of date, and on the whole it was a great
blessing to the people to substitute for it British rule.