AMONG THE BURMANS

A Typical Shan

Among the Burmans

A record of fifteen years
of work and its fruitage

By
HENRY PARK COCHRANE

ILLUSTRATED

New York Chicago Toronto

Fleming H. Revell Company

London and Edinburgh

Copyright, 1904, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 63 Washington Street
Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 30 St. Mary Street

[Preface]

The aim of this book is to give a true picture of life and conditions in Burma. Heathen religions, superstitions, and native customs are described as seen in the daily life of the people. Concrete illustrations are freely used to make the picture more vivid. Truth is stronger than fiction. In matters of personal experience and observation I have used the "Perpendicular Pronoun" as more direct and graphic. In matters of history I have read nearly everything available, and drawn my own conclusions, as others have done before me. If interest in "The Land of Judson" is stimulated by reading this little volume, its object will have been accomplished.

H. P. C.

[Contents]

[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]

Among the Burmans

[I]
FIRST EXPERIENCES

The Chanda was slowly making her way with the tide up the Rangoon River. Two young missionaries, myself and wife, were leaning on the rail, deeply interested in the scene before us. The rising sun, sending its rays over the land, seemed to us a pledge of the Master's presence in the work to which we had consecrated our lives. On every hand were strange sights and sounds, strange scenery, strange craft, strange people; everything far and near so unlike the old life that we had left behind. But it was something more than new sights and sounds that stirred in us the deep emotion expressed in moistened eye and trembling lip. Thoughts were going back to the time when we heard the call, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" And now that we were about to enter upon the realization of that to which we had so long looked forward, hearts too full for utterance, were stirred with gratitude and praise. But not long were we permitted to indulge in either retrospect or prospect. As the steamer drew near the dock all was turmoil and excitement,—officers shouting their orders; sailors dragging the great ropes into place; passengers getting their luggage ready for quick removal; friends on ship and shore eagerly seeking to recognize a familiar face; waving of handkerchiefs; sudden exclamations when an acquaintance or loved one was recognized.

At last the gangplank is in place, and on they come,—officials, coolies, business men, hotel-runners, representatives of many races, and conditions, energy for once superseding rank; missionaries well to the front to extend a welcome to the newcomers.

What a power there is in the hearty hand-shake and cordial greeting! To the newcomer, who has everything to learn and much to unlearn,—this warm reception by the veterans is a link to reconnect him with the world from which he seemed to have been separated during the long voyage; a bridge to span the gulf of his own inexperience; a magic-rite of adoption into the great missionary family; a pledge of fellowship and cooperation for all the years to come.

It was Sunday morning,—though few in that motley crowd either knew or cared. Mohammedan, Hindu, Parsee, Buddhist, and "Christian" jostled one another, each intent on his own affairs, and all combining to make this the farthest possible extreme from a "day of holy rest." Little wonder that this first Oriental Sunday was a distinct shock to the new missionaries. They had yet to learn that on many such Sundays they would long for the "Sabbath- and Sanctuary-privileges" of the home-land. But soon it became evident that the missionaries at least, were about the "Father's business," each hurrying away to be in time for the morning service in his own department of mission-work among many races. To the eye of one who has just landed in Rangoon each individual in the throng of natives on the street seems to have arrayed himself as fantastically as possible, or to have gone to the other extreme and failed to array himself at all. But at these Christian services one sees the natives classified according to race, and learns to distinguish certain racial characteristics,—of feature, costume, and custom. A congregation of Burmese is a beautiful sight, their showy skirts, turbans, and scarfs presenting the appearance of a flower garden in full bloom, but especially beautiful as a company of precious souls turned from their idols to the "True and living God."

Among our first experiences was a warm appreciation of the kind attempts on the part of the missionaries to initiate us, by means of good advice, into life in the tropics. "Now do be careful about exposing yourself to this tropical sun. Remember, you are not in America now."

"That solar tope of yours is not thick enough for one who is not used to this climate." "Flannel next to the skin is absolutely necessary, as a safeguard against malaria, dysentery, and other complaints so common here." "Now dear brother and sister, you must look out and not let your zeal run away with your judgment. Yankee hustle won't do in Burma."

Dear souls, we thought, you mean well, but we are not subject to these troubles of which you speak. Their warnings sink about as deep as the remark of one of our party who ran down the gangplank just ahead of us: "When you have been in the country as long as I have, etc.,"—an old expression, now under the ban. A few months later we began to take their advice. Experiences leading to such action will be described further on. Two days afterwards we reached our mission station, just as the sun was going down. While picking out our "luggage" (it was baggage when it left America) we received our first impressions as to the British Indian system of checking, or "booking," as it is called.

A luggage receipt given at the starting point, called for so many pieces. Then we found that to each article was glued a patch of paper on which its destination was marked, and also a number corresponding to the number on the receipt. All well so far. The luggage clerk seemed neither to know nor care, but left each passenger to claim his own.

We noticed too that everything imaginable was allowed to be booked, a certain number of viss in weight being allowed free on each ticket.

To our observing eyes, each passenger's luggage indicated about how long he had been in the country, or how much he had travelled.

Some evil spirit seems to possess the luggage clerk's assistant to glue the label in a new place each time, cancelling other bookings by tearing off loose corners of old labels. This custom is specially trying to spirituality when applied to bicycles, the railroad glue having such affinity for enamel that they stay or come off together. Another thing that impressed us was the suddenness with which the darkness of night came on, as if "darkness rather than light" reigned over this heathen land, and could hardly wait for the usurping sun to disappear behind the horizon. First impressions of our new home we gained late that night, by the dim light of a lantern. Home, did I say? As we peered through the shadows it did not strike us as being a place that could ever, by any stretch of imagination, seem like home. Bare, unpainted walls dingy with age; huge round posts, some of them running up through the rooms; no furniture except a teak bedstead, and a large round table so rickety that it actually bowed to us when we stepped into the room; lizards crawling on walls and ceiling,—interesting and harmless things, as we afterwards found, but not specially attractive to a newcomer. Oh, no,—it was not homesickness, only just lack of power to appreciate a good thing after the weary experiences of our long journey. In the night I was roused from sleep by hearing some one calling. Half awake, I was getting out from under the mosquito net, when my wife remarked, "Better get back into bed. It is only that taukteh, that Mrs. —— told us about." The taukteh is the "crowing," or "trout-spotted lizard." The English call it the tuctoo, from the sound it makes. The Burmans call it taukteh, for the same reason. Some declare that it says "doctor, doctor," as plain as day. Alarming stories are told of this terrible creature; how it loses its hold on the ceiling to alight in a lady's hair, and that nothing short of removing scalp and all will dislodge it. The worst thing we have known it to do was to wake the baby in the dead of the night, when we had got fairly settled to sleep after hours of sweltering. I have shot several for this unpardonable offense. The taukteh's sudden call in the night causes some children to suffer much from fright, though no harm is intended.

Our house was situated on a narrow strip of land with streets on three sides, and school dormitory in the rear. Just across one street was a native Police Guard, but we did not know what it was until next morning. We had come into our possessions after dark, so knew nothing of our environment. These were dacoit times. Disturbances were frequent. Of course our ears had been filled with exciting stories of dacoit atrocities. The incessant and unintelligible jabbering of the Paunjabby policemen, sometimes sounding as though they were on the verge of a fight, and the sharp call of the sentry as he challenged passers-by were anything but conducive to sleep through that first night in our mission bungalow.

The new missionary has many trying experiences while becoming accustomed to the changed conditions of life in the tropics. Judging from our own experience and observation, covering many years, it seems utterly impossible for the returned missionary to transmit to the new missionary, while yet in the home-land, anything like true conceptions of the life upon which he is about to enter, and how to prepare for it. Either the new missionary has theories of his own which he fondly imagines never have been tried, or he considers himself so unlike other mortals that rules of living, developed by long experience, do not apply to one of his own peculiar physical make-up. But whatever his attitude of mind towards the new life and work, the fact remains that he has dropped down in the midst of conditions so unlike anything in his past experience that he must learn to adapt himself to life as he finds it. The first place to apply his gift of adaptation is in the household. First experiences with native servants are decidedly interesting, to say the least. Our cook "Naraswamy," "Sammy" for short,—came to us highly recommended, and neatly clothed. We had not yet learned that the poorer the cook, the better his recommendations (often borrowed from some other cook), and the neater his clothing,—also borrowed for the purpose of securing a place, but never seen after the first day or two.

One day when "Missis" was giving directions about the dinner she called Sammy and said, "Sammy, how many eggs have you?" "Two egg, missis." "Very well, you make a pudding the best you can, with the two eggs." At dinner no pudding appeared. "Sammy, where is the pudding?" Putting on a sorrowful look Sammy replied, "I done break egg" (spreading out his hands to indicate the two eggs), "one got child, one got child." When Sammy felt fairly sure of keeping his place, his two little boys began to spend much of their time in and around the cook house. One of our first rules was that no child should be allowed to go naked on the mission compound. These two dusky youngsters had not a thread of clothing. Sammy was called up and instructed that if his children were coming to the mission premises, they must be properly clothed, at the same time presenting him with a suit for one child. The next day they came again, with smiles of satisfaction, one wearing the trousers, the other the jacket. Many of these Madrassi cooks are professing Christians, merely to secure a place in a missionary family. A small minority are Christians in fact. But whether a heathen cook sneaks off with a stuffed turban, or a professed Christian appropriates our food quietly humming "I love to steal,——" the resulting loss to commissariat and spirituality is the same.

Madrassi cooks, almost without exception, are dishonest. They will jealously guard "Master's" property against the depredations of all comers, but help themselves to a liberal commission from the daily Bazar money,—and catch them if you can. This has been their custom for many generations, and is their right, from their point of view.

When engaging a cook it may as well be kept in mind that his pay is so much a month, and ——. He will fill out the blank to suit himself.

Take his Bazar-account every day, and make him show the articles charged for, but do not congratulate yourself that he has made nothing by the transaction. And yet his prices may be quite as low as his employer could get. Find fault with the quality of the meat, and he will bring a better article, but short weight. A stranger might conjecture that the meat was selected for its wearing qualities, as one would buy leather; or that they had heard of the mummified beef found with one of the Pharaohs, and decided that only such was kingly food.

The cook is supposed to board himself. He does, and all his family connections. Just how he does it may never be known, but "Master" pays the bill, in "cash or kind." Bengalee cooks are much more desirable, but hard to get. Mrs. Judson's testimony to the faithfulness of her Bengalee cook may well be repeated here.

"I just reached Aungpenla when my strength seemed entirely exhausted. The good native cook came out to help me into the house; but so altered and emaciated was my appearance that the poor fellow burst into tears at the first sight. I crawled on to the mat in the little room, to which I was confined for more than two months, and never perfectly recovered until I came to the English camp. At this period, when I was unable to take care of myself, or look after Mr. Judson, we must both have died had it not been for the faithful and affectionate care of our Bengalee cook. A common Bengalee cook will do nothing but the simple business of cooking; but he seemed to forget caste, and almost all his own wants in his efforts to serve us, ... I have frequently known him not to taste food until near night, in consequence of having to go so far for wood and water, and in order to have Mr. Judson's dinner ready at the usual hour. He never complained, never asked for his wages, and never for a moment hesitated to go anywhere, or perform any act that we required."

The dhoby (washerman) is always a source of much distraction. He takes away the soiled linen on Monday, promising to bring it back on Saturday; carries it to the riverside, stands in the water facing the shore, pounds it out on a flat stone with swinging blows, and,—brings back what is left. Garments worn perhaps but once, are found on spreading out, to be spoiled by long rents or mildew. Socks that have been filled with sand in order to strike a harder blow, still retain enough sand to cause much discomfort. One or two pieces are missing altogether. He promises to bring them the next time. In the meantime he has probably hired them out to some person of mixed blood and principles, or native aping European habits. The sweeper, waterman, and other native helpers slight their work, or perchance, with the poorest excuse, and that not made known until afterwards,—absent themselves altogether. "But why"—some will ask "is it necessary to employ these native cooks, washermen, etc.?

"Many of these women who go to the foreign field as missionaries' wives were accustomed to do much of their own work here at home,—why not do the same over there, and so avoid the expense,—as many of us who support them have to do?" In the first place, many of the missionaries have only one servant who is paid for full time, that is the cook. All others do a little work night and morning, their wages being made up by serving several different families. Again, it would be a physical impossibility for the missionary's wife to do the cooking and washing, adding the heat and smoke of an open fire to the tropical heat of the atmosphere. Some have tried it, only to give it up as utterly impracticable. Others have persisted in it, only to be laid away in a cemetery in a foreign land, or to return hopelessly broken in health, to the home-land.

It cannot be done. Moreover, it would be the height of folly for the wife to spend her time and strength over cooking utensils, dish-pans and wash-tubs. The wife, as truly as the husband, has consecrated her life to the Master's service. There is work for her to do, among the women and children, that he cannot touch. The missionary's wife whether touring with him among jungle-villages; visiting from house to house in the town; working in the school; making her influence felt in the church; or even when prevented by family cares or failing health—from engaging in active service,—she furnishes the object lesson of a well-ordered Christian home, her life is of just as much worth to the cause of Christ as is that of the missionary whose helpmate she is. I can do no better than quote Dr. Herrick's beautiful tribute to her worth: "I never yet saw a missionary's wife whose companionship did not double her husband's usefulness. I have known more than one whose face, as the years of life increase took on that charm, that wondrous beauty that youthful features never wear, the beauty of character, disciplined by suffering, of a life unselfishly devoted to the highest ends. One of the choicest things of missionary work is the unwritten heroism of missionary homes. It is the missionary's wife who, by years of endurance and acquired experience in the foreign field, has made it possible, in these later years, for unmarried women to go abroad and live and work among the people of eastern lands."

When a young man or woman has once settled the burning question: Is it my duty and privilege to go as a missionary? and has become fully pledged to that service, there is an intense desire to get to the scene of action as soon as possible; to enter upon the grand work of proclaiming Christ where He has not been named.

We had not long been in our new home before Burmans, both Christian and heathen, began to call to see the new teachers. They evidently wanted to welcome us as their missionaries; and we, in turn, wanted them to know that love for them, for whom Christ died, had brought us among them. But how helpless we felt! An exchange of smiles, a hand-shake, a few words that neither party could understand,—that was all.

We found ourselves utterly powerless to communicate to them one word of all that was burning,—had been burning for years, in our hearts. Then it was that the fact fully dawned upon us that before we could hope to do effectively the work to which we had consecrated our lives, a difficult foreign language must be mastered; that we must keep our consecration warm, from the A B C of a strange tongue until the time when, through the medium of that tongue we could tell "the story of Jesus and His love." First in order then, is to get right down to hard boning on the language of the people among whom the missionary is to labour. He who fails to gain a strong hold on the language during the first year, will labour under a disadvantage through all the years of missionary service. Burdens are thrust upon him more than enough to consume all his time and strength. Hundreds of villages in his large district furnish a strong appeal to postpone study.

The climate soon begins to effect him so that he seems to lose the power to study. Inheriting a large organized work he is forced at once into service as a full-fledged missionary, before a pin-feather of experience has had time to start. Interruptions are frequent and unavoidable. How to find time for language study is indeed a serious problem,—but he must find it, if his life is to tell for Christ, at its best. Moreover, the missionary must master practically two languages before he is fully equipped for service,—the language of the book, and the language of the people. The formal style of classical Burmese would be as out of place in the jungle as the colloquial Burmese would be in the pulpit. In the one case it would not be understood, in the other it would give offense,—for one may not "talk down" to even a native audience. Hence, to be effective the missionary must at the same time be faithful to study, and to real contact with the people. It is no easy matter, after one has struggled through all the years of training in the home-land, thumbing Latin, Greek, and Hebrew Lexicons until he fondly thinks that his training has been completed,—to get right down again to the A B C of a new language. Here he meets something, that will test the soundness of his consecration and of his staying qualities. From first to last our great missionaries have been men who have thoroughly mastered the language of their people. But it is perfectly wonderful how the natives will listen respectfully to the most laborious attempts to speak to them in their own tongue. Not a smile at the most ridiculous mistakes, not a word or sign to indicate that they are not really understanding what you are driving at. This excessive respect sometimes leads to serious consequences. The missionary, thinking that he has made himself understood, is disappointed and hindered because things do not come to pass. The native is not wanting a sense of humour, and if he feels sure that you will enjoy the joke, he will point out the mistake, and join in the laugh over it.

Unlike other languages of Burma, the construction of a Burmese sentence is the reverse of the English order. Many sentences may be translated backward, word for word, certain connective particles becoming relative pronouns, with a perfect idiomatic English sentence as the result. The eye can soon be trained to take in a printed sentence as a whole, and grasp its meaning, without stopping to render it into English in the reversed order. But to keep this order in mind, in conversation, with the word expressing action left for the last, like the snapper to a whip, is not so easy. In acquiring the language by ear a difficulty arises from the universal habit of kun-chewing. Never careful about enunciating his words, a wad of kun in a Burman's cheek adds to the confusion of sounds. With mouth half full of saliva, chin protruding to keep it from slopping over,—a mumbled jargon is what the ear must be trained to interpret as human speech.

By this time the newcomer has seen enough of the climate, and of the side of society in which he will move, to convince him that his Prince Albert coat, in which he has been accustomed to array himself "every day in the week, and twice on Sunday" must be folded away in his trunk until such a time as he takes a furlough in the home-land. A fellow-missionary consoles him with the remark that he once wore back to America the same coat that he wore to Burma eight years before. Missionaries usually arrive in November, the beginning of the "cold season." After that comes the "hot season,"—but it is difficult to tell just where the one leaves off and the other begins.

In any event, the newcomer soon "warms to his work." First the waistcoat is discarded, then the long thick coat gives place to a short thin one. For underwear, gauze flannel and singlets are in demand. Starched shirts and linen collars are reserved for special occasions. High-top shoes are relegated to the corner-closet. Even his watch hangs as an uncomfortable weight in his light clothing. In the old life he hardly perspired once in the year. Now there is hardly once in the year when he is not perspiring. The drinking-water is so warm that it seems to have lost much of its wetness. What would he not give to feel cool again. But he has not long to wait for his wish to be more than realized. Some night, after fanning himself into a restless sleep, he will wake up in a chill, to find himself in the throes of the Burma fever, to which he was "not subject." Then he will recall the lightly-regarded advice, repeatedly violated in every particular, and now—— As this is the first attack he will get his wife to treat him the first day with the homeopathic remedies in his morocco medicine case,—his last misguided purchase before sailing.

There is nothing better to perpetuate a fever. On the second day, having recalled some more advice, his head will be buzzing with quinine, the only thing that will really help him,—as every man in the tropics knows.

[II]
LIVING LIKE THE NATIVES

Much has been said and written about "living like the natives."

Many have maintained that the missionaries should abandon their former mode of living, and adopt the customs and costume of the people among whom they labour. It is said that old maids know the most about the proper way to bring up children. It is interesting to note that advocates of this theory of missionary methods are men who never have been out of their native land, and have spent but little of their time in informing themselves as to the habits of uncivilized peoples. Prospective missionaries will do well to provide themselves with the customary outfit,—to meet their needs while finding an answer to the many-sided question,—how do the natives live?

For the present we will confine our investigations to Burma. Let us visit one of the native houses, and see for ourselves. Running the gauntlet of several snarling pariah dogs, we pass through the muddy door-yard, littered with banana leaves, munched sugar-cane, and waste from various sources. The house is set up on posts, several feet from the ground, affording a shady place below, to be shared by the family and the domestic animals. The floor overhead is of split bamboo or thin boards, with wide cracks through which all sweepings fall, and kun-chewers lazily spit without troubling themselves to get up. At the back part of the house a corner is partitioned off for the cook-room, the stove being a very shallow box filled with earth. The cooking is done in earthen chatties over the smoky open fires. Near the cook-room is an open space where household utensils are washed and the babies bathed, the water falling through the open floor to the ground below. Month after month and year after year this filthy habit goes on, forming a cesspool from which a foul stench arises, offensive to nostrils and dangerous to health. This foul pool is a paradise for their ducks, its slime being tracked all over the place. The house is small, its thatched roof coming down so low as hardly to leave room for a full-sized door. Many of these homes have no out-buildings whatever, trusting to the pariah dogs and the crows,—the village scavengers,—to keep the premises in a sanitary condition. Some of the well-to-do Burmans live in larger better houses; showing that not only is it impracticable for Europeans to live like the natives, but that natives when able, find it wise to live like Europeans. This is a tropical climate, with the temperature at 112° in the shade on the day these words were written. It would be almost suicidal for Europeans to attempt to live in such houses, even under the best sanitary conditions possible. Missionaries have lived for a time in such houses, from force of circumstances, but always to the detriment of health, sometimes with very serious consequences. To a stranger, European "bungalows" in the tropics seem needlessly large. "Globe-trotters" in general, and sometimes representatives of missionary societies, it is to be feared, visiting the tropics in the coolest season,—carry away this impression with them. In New England there is a saying "You must summer him and winter him" to find out the real worth of a man or beast. Could all who visit the tropics, or presume to write of conditions in the tropics,—spend a whole year in such a climate critics would be few, and funds for seemingly expensive, though necessary buildings less grudgingly given.

They who urge that Europeans should clothe like the natives would surely allow exceptions to the rule, on closer study of native habits.

Among some of the tribes of Burma the question of wardrobe and latest style would be easily solved. Clothing like such natives would greatly reduce the expense for "outfit." Two strips of cotton cloth, one for the head, the other for the loins, would meet all requirements even on state occasions. But apart from all questions of common decency, it is to be seriously doubted whether the European would enjoy "sailing under bare poles" in a tropical sun.

The railway trains are provided with first, second, and third-class compartments. Officials and wealthy business men travel first-class. Less fortunate Europeans, and people of mixed race but with European habits travel second-class. Natives, as a rule, go third-class,—but the rule has many exceptions. Not to speak of well-to-do Burmans and Chinese, who, though unobjectionable in dress,—are inveterate smokers, the "chetties," or money-lenders invariably travel second-class. They are the wealthiest men in the county, but with the exception of coolies,—they wear the least clothing and are the most offensive in their habits. The missionaries, whether on private or mission business, being unable to bear the expense of the higher class, and striving to save for the society which they represent, travel second-class. Now that many very objectionable natives have taken to riding second-class, it is no longer respectable for Europeans, except on rare occasions when the train is not crowded. For my own part, I seriously doubt whether this habit, on the part of American missionaries, of taking an inferior place among so-called "Europeans," is a wise policy.

Raw Material (Kachins)

Kachins Sacrificing to Demons

But whether wise or otherwise, lack of funds has made it necessary.

Far from adopting the impossible costume of Chins, Kachins, Salongs and other benighted races, the missionaries are earnestly striving to develop in the natives sufficient moral sense that they may come to regard the matter of being clothed at all, as something more than a minor consideration. It is true that Burmans, Shans, and Christian Karens dress more respectably. In fact, their costume, at its best, seems to be very well adapted to the climate and their manner of life. But even this somewhat generous concession must be modified.

The customary skirt for Burmese women in Upper Burma, and more or less throughout the country, is a piece of coloured cloth about a yard square, fastened around the waist to open in front. This style of skirt is said to have been adopted by a decree of the Burman King. Multitudes of Burmese women seem to have no disposition to abandon it for something more modest, even after eighteen years of British rule. Elderly women, as well as men of all ages, wear nothing above the waist while about their work, even passing through the streets in that condition with no self-consciousness. The Burmese skirt made after the most approved pattern is only one thickness of cloth, tightly fitting the body, not such a dress as European ladies would care to wear. Mrs. Judson, ministering to her imprisoned husband, felt compelled to adopt the native costume, to make her position more secure. But supposing the missionaries adopt the costume of the corresponding class,—the priests and nuns,—they must go with bare feet and shaven heads; all very well for the natives, but nothing short of ridiculous, as well as extremely dangerous under a tropical sun, if practiced by white people. In the interior of China the costume of the people has been found very suitable for the missionaries, and a help to winning their way. But wherever the people have become familiar with European customs, respect is forfeited, rather than gained by exchanging European customs for those of the natives.

A missionary and his wife recently returned from Africa were invited to speak in a certain church dressed in the native costume. They appeared, but in their usual attire. In the course of his remarks the missionary referred to the request that they appear in native costume, and drawing a piece of cotton cloth from his pocket remarked "That is the costume,—you will excuse us?"

Eating like the natives,—here comes the tug-of-war. The "backward tribes,"—Chins, Kachins, Salongs, many tribes of Karens, and others, eat everything,—from the white ant to the white-eyed monkey. Worms, beetles, maggots, lizards, snakes, and many other such delicious morsels would form a part of one's daily diet,—a necessary part, unless the missionary has supplied himself with tinned provisions,—in which case he would not be living like the natives. But we will suppose that the missionary's lot has "fallen in pleasant places"—among the more civilized Burmans of the plains. Rice will be the centre and substance of the two daily meals. Rice, well-cooked,—the natives can do that to perfection,—is an excellent food, and finds a conspicuous place on the bill of fare at every European table. But rice is made palatable by the savoury "curry" served with it. In jungle-villages, and among poor people in the town this curry will be made of vegetables (not such vegetables as we have known in the home-land), and tender sprouts and leaves, seasoned with chillies. Devout Buddhists will not take animal life, hence meat-curries, if far from the market, may not be thought of.

If the missionary has undertaken to live among the natives and like the natives, he must learn to do without meat. They will not kill a fowl for him. If he kills one for himself, he has broken his contract. But, perchance, an animal may die of itself, then its carcass will be parcelled out to all the villagers, and the missionary will have his share. In the town he may fare better, without breaking his rule. Meat slaughtered by non-Buddhists is on sale in the Bazar every day.

Buddhists as well as others may buy and eat, for the sin is only in the killing, in which they had no part. It is nothing to them that the demand occasions the supply. So what time the missionary spends in town he may have his meat.

In spite of the commandment, "thou shalt not take the life of any living thing," undoubtedly the most important Thou shalt not—in the Buddhist creed, with the penalty of the lowest hell for its violation,—there is no lack of fishermen. Theoretically, they are the lowest of the low. But if all fishermen were to die to-day—their places would be filled to-morrow, and the market still be supplied. The natives want fish seven days in the week, if they can get it. But not even a fresh-meat or fresh fish-curry is satisfactory to the native palate until flavoured with dried fish, or with "nga-pee." In the Bazar may be found smoked and dried fish in great variety, very tempting to the native, but betraying the fact that too many hours under a tropical sun were allowed before curing. This fish is often eaten raw, in blissful ignorance of the microbe theory,—indifference would be the better word, for their "microbes" frequently are visible to the naked eye. If these organisms have not actually eaten part of the fish, they are considered so much clear gain to the consumer. Such food is largely responsible for the great demand for a strong vermifuge in the treatment of sickness.

Now we come to "nga-pee" proper, regarded by the Burmans and several other races, as essential to a well-flavoured meal.

"The smell of nga-pee is certainly not charming to an uneducated nose,"—said a writer on Burmese customs,—a statement that has passed unchallenged. There are many varieties of nga-pee, but to all the remark quoted may be applied. The most common is called fish-paste or "Burmese butter," made from the smaller fish which are caught in large quantities, as smelts are in the home-land. The fish are spread on mats under a tropical sun, just as they come from the water, and left there until in a condition which an "uneducated nose" would not care to investigate.

They are then mashed to a paste,—a very easy matter,—salt is worked into the mass, and then it is packed away to drain. The oily juice is carefully saved in earthern jars, a highly prized liquid flavouring. When well drained the nga-pee is taken to market in sacks or in bulk, the indescribable odour always going a mile in advance, when the wind is right. Passengers by river-steamers sometimes find themselves sandwiched in between two cargo-boats loaded with nga-pee, fairly sizzling under a broiling sun. Passenger trains halting at stations sometimes stand over against a few carloads of nga-pee on the side-track, filling the passenger-compartments with an odour rank and unbearable. And yet this vile stuff is eagerly devoured by all races, and must be allowed a place in the missionary's meal, if he is to "live like the natives." Nga-pee furnishes only one, though a very self-assertive one of the many offensive smells of an Oriental Bazar. Many fastidious people never go to the Bazar, for fear of contracting some kind of disease. There is much in the condition of these places to furnish ground for such fears. And yet I never have heard of disease being so taken. It would seem that one odour counteracts another, completely foiling all evil intentions of the spirit of sickness.

[III]
CUSTOMS OF THE BURMESE

The Burman is the proudest mortal on earth. Indeed, he is not of earth, according to his own belief, but has descended from fallen angels. Many ages ago certain Brahmas came down from the celestial regions to dwell on the earth. By adapting themselves to the habits of ordinary human beings, they themselves gradually became human. From these Brahmas or fallen angels, the whole Burman nation descended.

The Burman recognizes no superior. The superior advantages of a training in the Western world counts for nothing, because the Burman cannot appreciate such advantages. At one time when in conversation with a Burman official recognized as one of the ablest Burmans in the country, I dilated upon the extent, power, wealth, and resources of the United States, in answer to his many questions about my country.

Wishing to impress him, I made the figures as large as conscience would allow. At last he summed it all up in the self-satisfied expression—"About as big as Burma, isn't it?" A difference of about 70,000,000 in population was not comprehended. He could conceive of nothing bigger or more important than Burma. The Burman kings posed as the Head of Religion. The king was more than human. His subjects were his slaves, with no legal right to anything which he might crave for himself. He could compel them to perform any labour he saw fit to impose. His titles indicate his high estimate of himself: "His glorious and excellent Majesty, Lord of Elephants, Lord of gold, silver, rubies, amber, and the noble serpentine, Sovereign of the Empires of Thunapurtanta and Jambudipa, and other great Empires and countries, and of all the Umbrella-bearing chiefs, The supporter of Religion, Descendant of the Sun, Arbiter of Life, King of Righteousness, King of Kings, and Possessor of boundless dominion and supreme wisdom." That is all. It was well to be somewhat modest, as an example to the people.

The king was "Lord of the White Elephant," for short. That in itself ought to have satisfied a man of ordinary ambition, inasmuch as the white elephant was a sacred animal, and had the "power of making its possessor invincible." "The white umbrella was the emblem of sovereignty in Burma, and its use was limited to the king and the images of Gautama." The Buddhist priest must be content with a more modest title than "Pongyi," the name by which they are now known,—for pongyi means "Great Glory," and could be applied only to the king. But when the king fell into the hands of the English the title "Great Glory" went broadcast—to minister to the vanity of the thousands of priests and to be retained by them as a monopoly. Burman officials to this day are equally proud of their titles, from the highest in the land down to the Ywa-Thugyi, the village headman. To address any official by name instead of his title, would be a gross breach of etiquette. In the king's time official etiquette was scrupulously observed, even towards prisoners of the official class. Royal blood must never be shed, even in executions. A blow from a bludgeon on the back of the neck of the stooping victim,—or in the case of females, a blow on the front of the neck settled the account. Nor might royal victims be buried. The body, enshrouded in a red velvet sack, was taken in a boat to the middle of the river, and thrown in. It is said that this was sometimes done without the formality of an execution, a few stones in the sack answering the same purpose. Crucifixion was also common. It is claimed that in many instances the victim was first put to death and then the mutilated body bound to the bamboo cross and exhibited as a fearful warning to evil-doers. Dread of being crucified led thousands to migrate to British territory after the annexation of Pegu. The ugly terms "imprisonment," and "execution" were never used at the court of the king. There was a "keeping by" and a "clearing away," to suit the caprice of the king, scores and hundreds being massacred at once, on the merest suspicion of conspiracy. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," was true of Burman kings, and they had a way of making all others of royal blood equally uneasy.

Pounding Rice

One of the causes leading to the last Burmese-English war, was the famous "Shoe question." According to the Burmese custom, sandals must be removed outside the entrance, whether of private residence or royal palace. When a subject of however exalted rank was admitted to the presence of the king, he must come in his bare feet, and approach in a crouching position so that his skirt would prevent his feet being seen by the fastidious eyes of the king. Heads have been lost for violation of less important rules of etiquette. Representatives of the British Government were compelled to follow this humiliating custom,—though they were graciously allowed to keep their stockings on,—and to sit on the floor at a respectful distance from His Majesty, Lord of the White Elephant, etc., etc. The Briton thought this inconsistent with proper respect for the government he represented, to say nothing of his own personal feelings. Diplomatic negotiations were delayed, for the haughty king would allow no deviation from this humiliating custom. Although the war was not declared on this issue, English officials who had been required to remove their shoes, found great satisfaction in requiring the king to remove his crown. The custom of taking off one's sandals when entering any house still prevails. Entering with sandals on could only be interpreted as a deliberate insult. When a European enters a monastery he is expected to take off his shoes, though the priest does not insist upon it—when informed that it is not European custom.

If twenty men come to see the missionary, the last man must step over nineteen pairs of sandals at the foot of the stairs. But when it comes to head-gear, the custom is reversed. While Europeans would take off their hats, the Burmans do not remove their gaung-baungs, or turbans. The gaung-baung is usually of gaudy silk, and worn at all times, even at worship, by both Buddhist and Christian.

When Saul had been informally proclaimed King of Israel, the people "despised him, and brought him no present." This would not have happened in Burma, as the attitude of men from whom presents would naturally be expected,—unless perchance they had ceased to value that portion of their bodies above the shoulders. Whether king, subordinate official, or private citizen, a present suited to the weight of the matter in hand was an essential preliminary to a hearing. Under British rule, Burman officials do not openly perpetuate this custom. They now content themselves with bribes quietly presented, usually through a third party, in place of the present once openly offered. But in social life the custom of making presents is a recognized matter of etiquette, even when visiting non-official superiors. It commonly takes the form of a tray of the choicest fruit procurable. But in the majority of instances it finally appears that some favour or other is being sought.

Poor people sometimes come with a bunch of plantains or a few oranges which they beg us graciously to accept as a token of their great esteem, and then hang around the place waiting for a return present of ten times the value of their own. The European soon becomes suspicious of presents as likely to prove more expensive than the regular Bazar rate.

A missionary to the Indians in British Columbia relates a story which, so far as motive is concerned, might have been matched in Burma. One day an Indian gave them two fat ducks. "What shall I pay for them?" "Oh, nothing, they are a present for the missionary." The Indian hung around, remained to dinner, ate one of the ducks, remained through the afternoon, ate the equivalent of the other duck, remained until bedtime, when the missionary hinted that perhaps he had better go home to see if his wigwam was where he left it. "I'm only waiting." "Waiting for what?" "Waiting for the present you are to give me for the present I gave you."

A peculiar custom that always impresses the newcomer, is that of doing obeisance, called "shikkoing." When the devout worshipper counts the beads on his rosary he repeats the formula with each bead "Lord, Law, Priest—the three precious things" or objects of his worship.

As a counterpart of this formula he goes through three prostrations, with palms together, bowing his face to the ground in honour of the three precious things of his creed. These prostrations are also gone through at confessional before the priest,—one of the "precious things" before mentioned. He does not enumerate his sins, but lumps them, declaring that for all the sins he has committed he prostrates himself three times, in honour of the three precious things, and hopes thereby to be freed from all punishments and calamities. In respect to both spirit and method this custom reminds one of a certain man who used to hang his clumsily written prayer to the bedpost, saying as he crawled into bed, "Lord, them's my sentiments." After his lump-sum confession he receives the priest's benediction, which is practically the same as absolution, and goes away, the self-complacent pharisee that he is.

What astonishes and shocks the missionary is to find a heathen Burman at his feet going through this seeming act of worship. He feels as horrified as did Paul and Barnabas at Lystra. But he afterwards learns when he comes to understand the Burman better,—that these prostrations before superiors are not intended as acts of real worship. He is merely showing his humble respect, as a preliminary to some appeal for favour.

English officials require from non-Christian natives the same tokens of respect that were in vogue prior to the annexation. Native Christians are exempt from all customs which savour of Buddhism.

The idol and the priest alike represent Gautama, the only god the Buddhist knows. The attitude of the Burman mind may be illustrated by what a Burman Christian boy told me of his experience when he visited his native village. In response to an invitation he went to see the old priest, who had known him as a child. The priest was held in honour both by virtue of office, and his advanced age. The young Christian went through the customary prostrations respectfully, and then said, "I do not shikko you as God, but because I do not know of any other way to show my respect." The heathen Burman is in the same difficulty when he appears in the presence of a foreigner whom he wishes to honour.

This Oriental mode of showing reverence, not necessarily worship, throws light on the word "worship," so often used by Matthew.

The Burman is a religious animal, both terms emphasized. He has many religious festivals, and every festival is a feast. The casual observer would see but little difference between the street processions of weddings and funerals. There are the same tom-toms, the same grotesque dancing, the same stuffing of insatiable stomachs. Among Chins and Kachins such occasions are scenes of drunkenness and disorder. Not so among the Burmans. Many have contracted the drink habit by contact with Europeans, but the use of intoxicants has not yet become a national vice. The Burman attends all feasts and festivals because it is unchangeable custom to do so; because everybody else will be there, and he enjoys being in a crowd; because it gives him an excuse for abstaining from work, which he does not enjoy; because he can array himself in his best silk skirt and gaung-baung, and will find all the ladies there similarly arrayed; and most of all because whatever the occasion, it will be a feast. During the rainy season, which coincides with "Buddhist Lent" no feasts or festivals are held.

Funerals cannot always be postponed, especially as there is much sickness in the rainy season, but weddings are prohibited. Courting may be indulged in on the sly, to shorten the process when Lent is over.

At the beginning of Lent there is a great festival, entered into with enthusiasm because it will be the last for several months. At the end of Lent there is another great festival, hilariously enjoyed because the dull rainy Lenton period with its round of Duty-days without the craved accompaniments is over at last. Even the priests enjoy it, for presents to the monasteries, which had fallen off during Lent, will now be renewed. The young are again free to pair. The whole town is illuminated. Fire-balloons are sent up, with reckless disregard to safety of their houses. All are bent on having a good time. It is a religious festival, to be sure, each separate observance being in honour of some nat or divinity—but there will be time enough to meditate on all that afterwards. For the present it is a round of picnic enjoyment.

The Burman era began in 639 a. d. The New Year begins in April.

The month is reckoned from midway between two full moons. Any Burman can readily give you the date, according to the Burman system, but very few have mastered the European calendar. The date is given as so many days before or after the full of the moon. The New Year is always celebrated by the "Water-feast." Offerings of pots of water are taken to the monasteries, the images of Gautama given their annual washing down, and then the show begins. Boisterous young men arm themselves with buckets or chatties of water, frolicsome damsels with cups, and the boys with bamboo squirt-guns, each and all bent on douching everybody else. By some means or other everybody gets his share. He would feel slighted if he did not receive a due share of liquid attention. The use of water at the beginning of the year has a religious significance,—but let the priest and the pious attend to that. The young folks are in for a jolly good time, and they get it. At the beginning of November there is another feast in honour of the time when Gautama Buddha made a visit to the celestial regions to preach to his mother. Then on the full moon of November another feast in honour of the time when Gautama became a Buddha under the bawdee-tree. Lesser feasts occur at intervals until Lent begins again. What with all the religious feasts, the weddings, ear-borings, funerals, etc., etc., the Burman suffers no lack of enjoyment. He manages to get some fun out of everything, the funeral being no exception. He will dance and sing on the way to the cemetery, and race bullock-carts on the way home. The funeral of a priest often resolves itself into a tug of war. Two stout ropes are attached to each end of the four-wheeled cart on which the casket has been placed. The crowd divides itself into two parties, the ropes are seized, and the struggle begins. Up the street the cart is dragged with a great hurrah, until reinforcements strengthen the opposing party, then the cart takes a lurch in the other direction, its lofty spire swaying in a threatening manner. Back and forth goes the cart, the exciting contest sometimes lasting for hours. Merit is gained by drawing the pongyis' remains to the funeral pyre. Of course the pyre-ward side must ultimately win, or there would be no cremation.

Dancing Girls

The rope-pull is sometimes resorted to in much the same manner to break a prolonged drought. Whether successful or not, as rain-makers, they have the sport. Is the Burman lazy? He certainly has that reputation, and I never heard it disputed by employers of Burman labour. His services would be better appreciated were he as punctual at the beginning of the day as he is at its close, and as diligent in the use of his tools as he is in keeping his cheroot lighted. He must have some credit for hard work to leave so many things undone. At "turning off work" he has no superior. He invariably turns off all the work he can,—and does the rest. And yet when one reflects that outside of the delta nearly all of the hard work of cultivation in the plains is done by Burmans one feels compelled to reconsider his verdict as to the Burman's capacity for work. No man can tell by a Burman's clothing whether he is rich or poor. All that a man hath will he give for a silk skirt. In "the good old times" when the king's will was law subordinate officials made demands for money wherever appearances indicated that money existed, to make up the amount of revenue called for. It was then good policy to dress below one's ability rather than above it, or one might find himself in an embarrassing situation. Moreover, certain material, style of cut, etc., was reserved for royal blood. But when the king fell, and the Burman found that the conqueror's method of raising revenue was by equitable taxation, royal customs went to the winds. Young men and maidens, and even the middle-aged blossomed out in gaudy array on festive occasions, though there might not be a pice of loose change to back it. Of all the races of Burma the Burmese are the cleanliest and dressiest. The costume of nearly all races, at its best, is fairly respectable and suited to their manner of life,—if they would only keep it clean and keep it on. When one is about to die the friends say, "Think not of friends or of property,—think only of God." This sounds hopeful, but it is well known that these spiritual advisers have in mind only the brazen image of Gautama, found in every village, the only god they know.

When a death occurs the pongyis are invited to the house, not to console the living, but to perform certain rites on behalf of the dead.

First a priest repeats a formula something like this, "He worships God; he worships the law; he worships the clergy," friends assuming the attitude of worship as substitutes for the deceased. The priest continues—"He kills not, steals not, commits no offense against his neighbour's wife; lies not; drinks not. He has all his life been careful about these things." The formula ended, one of the friends drops water from a gurglet or cocoanut shell into a glass, to accompany another formula by the priest, "May the deceased enjoy the food of the nats. May the nat of the earth bear witness." The person who pours out the water drawls in a loud voice, "Ah-mya-myo"—in great abundance and variety, the people responding, "Thah-doo, thah-doo"—it is well, it is well. At the grave, or in a zayat nearly the same ceremonies are repeated. The priests have already been feasted at the house, and now presents are given on behalf of the dead, that he may enjoy the same blessings in the abode of the nats. The priests do not usually accompany the procession, but go in advance to the zayats near the cemetery. At death a small coin is placed in the dead man's mouth to pay his ferry fare across the mystic river of death. Without the coin for the ferry he could not cross, but would have to return to this world to suffer—nobody knows what. The use of the coin is said to be dying out. The coffin is swung endwise over the grave seven times (sometimes docked to three) as a good-bye, and to give the deceased a good start towards the great Myin-Mo Mount, the abode of the nats.

Human nature is much the same the world over. Courtship and marriage are universal customs. Methods differ, but motives are the same.

The majority of marriages are for love, or for something that has been mistaken for that sentiment. When a Burmese young man and maiden fancy each other well enough to indulge in playful flirtations at pagoda feasts and other public occasions it is pretty sure to develop into something more serious. The young lady is not likely to let a good chance slip by. Old-maidhood is dreaded by all, except the comparatively few who become nuns, and many of them are said to have become nuns because disappointed in love. Lover-like attentions may not be given openly. Clandestine meetings would scandalize the whole community.

At about nine o'clock in the evening the young man, accompanied by his friends approaches the house of the maiden whose charms cause his heart to thump against his ribs. He finds her awaiting his coming. But they are not to enjoy a fond tête-à-tête by themselves. Several young lady friends are sitting on the open veranda with her,—and the old lady peeking through a chink in the bamboo wall. It is courtship under difficulties, but it means business just the same. The rules of propriety have been observed, the parents are satisfied. As for the rest, trust the young folks to find ways and means to enjoy themselves as lovers do the world over. Accepting presents of jewelry from a young man is generally recognized as an engagement. Many a maiden has allowed her fondness for jewelry to lead to complications from which she has difficulty in extricating herself. According to old Burmese law the sole right to select or reject suitors was vested in the parents. The daughter, until twenty years of age, was entirely under their control.

The Dhammathat says: "Amongst men there are only three ways of becoming man and wife, which are as follows: First, a man and woman given in marriage by their parents, who live and eat together. Second, a man and wife brought together by the intervention of a go-between, who live and eat together. Third, a man and woman who came together by mutual consent, who live and eat together." In question of property rights the most importance is attached to the first method. A marriage without the consent of the parents, if the girl is under twenty, may be cancelled by the parents, if action is promptly taken. The girl may reject the man to whom she has been betrothed by her parents, but her decision is recognized only after she has run away from him and been forcibly restored three times. In like manner a girl who has been taken in marriage without the consent of her parents must be restored to them three times. If she then returns again to her husband the parents' claim upon her is forfeited, because the "Owner of the daughter could not control her." Widows and divorced women are subject to no control. While all this is Buddhist law, the girl, as a matter of fact, does about as she pleases in the matter of accepting or rejecting, just as they do in other lands, whether she is under twenty or not. Neither Buddhist law nor established custom renders any kind of a marriage ceremony essential, nor is registration of the marriage necessary. "Living and eating together," constitute all desired evidence of marriage.

The first eating together is something done in the presence of witnesses and so becomes in itself a simple wedding ceremony. This happy-go-lucky custom makes it exceedingly difficult to settle any questions in law growing out of such a marriage. A couple may prove that they are, or are not husband and wife, as best suits their ends. In Christian lands the wife is sometimes taken home to live with her mother-in-law.

In Burma the situation is reversed, the young husband going to live with his wife's parents. By a generally accepted division of labour the wife is the burden-bearer, while the husband gets the glory for what is accomplished. Husband and wife are going into town to exchange a basket of rice for a supply of putrid fish and other necessaries of life.

The wife carries the basket, weighing seventy-five or one hundred pounds, on her head, the husband with only his kun-bag slung over his shoulder walking ahead at a gait which she finds it difficult to follow.

The load may now and then be rested on a convenient stump, or the considerate husband helps to lower it to the ground and raise it to her head again. So accustomed have they become to this arrangement that it never occurs to either party that the man might carry the load part of the time. Familiar as is this custom, it never fails to stir in my soul an indignant protest. But the "worm may turn," if pressed too hard.

A poor woman was going to the station to take a train. On her head was a heavy load, and on her hip a child. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. The husband, carrying nothing but his umbrella, was persistently tormenting her. At last she deposited load and child on the ground none too gently, and pitched into him with great fury, cuffing, scratching and screaming all at once, until he gave her a wide berth.

It was one of the most refreshing sights ever witnessed, in this land. According to Buddhism the male is far superior to the female. No woman can cherish the slightest hope of attaining to Naik-ban. Her highest hope and prayer is that in the next, or some future existence she may be born as man, and so take a fresh start. But in this life the Burmese woman holds a higher place than is enjoyed by her sisters in any other Oriental land. If divorced from her husband she can take away whatever property she brought when married, together with all she may have gained by her own exertions. She is by no means a silent partner in business affairs. Usually she has greater business acuteness than her husband, and does not hesitate to have a voice in all negotiations. The Bazar is almost wholly run by the women, each having her own stall and keeping her own accounts in her head, for she cannot read nor write. At this point women seem to be inferior, but it is because they were excluded from the monastic school, and never had a chance. Vastly better than her indolent husband or brother she knows how to make money and keep what she makes. While Mohammedan and Hindu women are shut up in harems and zenanas, the Burmese women walk the streets with head erect, puffing their huge cheroots without the slightest thought of being the "weaker vessel." The energy of the Burmese women saves the race from going to the wall.

Tattooing

From courtship and marriage we pass by a natural transition to child-life in Burma. The crop of babies never fails. Parents would as soon think of failure of the rice harvest as of a failure to add annually to the population of the village, and the disappointment would be about the same. If nature did not defeat the barbarous methods of native midwives there would be no child-life to describe. But in spite of methods that would soon depopulate more civilized lands, every town and village is just romping full of children. Boys run naked until six or eight years of age, and girls until one or two. Many a time have I seen parents, wrapped in blankets, huddled around a fire in the cool season while their infants and small children had not the slightest protection. There is no intentional neglect, for the parents love their children, but it is "custom." This custom supplements the ignorance of the midwives, and adds to the number of shallow little graves in the adjacent jungle for the parish dogs to fight over. But baby has its cradle for its frequent naps. This is made of wood or wickerwork, and suspended from a bamboo in the floor or roof above. Sometimes this swinging cradle is a wide strip of cloth tied together at the ends, with the baby deposited in the loop. Baby has not long been in the world before it has a name. The name depends on the day of the week in which it was born. Certain letters of the alphabet are assigned to each day. The baby's name must begin with one of the letters assigned to its birthday. There is no family name, nothing to indicate to what particular family a child belongs. Each day of the week represents some planet, from which it takes its name. The planet assigned to a particular day will influence the life of a person born on that day, and determine his temperament. The naming is done when the baby is one month old. On the previous day invitations are sent around to the elders of the village, who by eating a pinch of pickled tea from a cup sent by the messenger,—accepts the invitation to be present at the ceremony, the parents make ready a supply of food, a feast being an essential part of every ceremony. Invited guests bring presents of money, precious stones, or jewels, which they cast into a large jar of water set there for the purpose. Some of the more valuable presents are merely lent for the occasion, but they help to make a show. When the guests have enjoyed their pickled tea, betel-nut, and cheroot, several of the elders proceed to bathe the baby in the vessel containing the presents. Another repeats a benediction calling for the continuous welfare of the child, but limits it to one hundred and twenty years. From the centre of a circle of coins on a dish of rice a cord of cotton thread is taken and bound around the child's wrist. One of the elders now announces the child's name,—previously decided on by the parents,—as if it were the happy result of his own meditations. This ceremony is to the Burman and Shan what a christening is to many in other lands, in its relation to a child's future. An interesting naming ceremony was held by two couples of native Christians, in my mission. The missionaries and native Christians were invited to a prayer-meeting. After the meeting a number of Old Testament names, written on slips of paper, were put in a hat borrowed from the missionary. The first fond father to put his hand into the hat drew for his offspring the name Daniel,—which he would pronounce Dan-ya-lah. The other father got Moses as a name for his son. Dan-ya-lah and Maw-shay they are to this day.

It is interesting to watch little children at their play. With sun-dried marbles, large seeds, or peculiarly-shaped sticks, plays have been improvised, which, in the course of years, have become national games for the youngsters. Boys and girls enjoy the sport together.

Before the English annexed the country the monasteries were the only schools. This is still the case in the majority of villages. But every Buddhist boy, whether he has the advantage of the English schools or not, must spend a few months in the monastery. Until he enters the monastery as a probationer he is not considered a human being in such a sense that it would count in future transmigrations. He now receives a new name, to be used so long as he remains in the monastery. If he finally becomes a priest he retains the religious name for life.

The novitiate-ceremony usually takes place when the boy is between ten and twelve years of age. If not already familiar with life in the monastery, he is taught how to address the priests, and conduct himself generally. As this is the most important event in a Burman boy's life, the ceremony is made on as grand a scale as the circumstances and credit of the boy's parents and friends will permit. Decked in gayest costume and covered with jewelry he is placed on a pony, or, in the towns, in the best vehicle obtainable, protected from the sun by a long-handled umbrella, and conducted to the homes of his relatives, to bid them farewell. Flashily dressed men and women, boys and girls make up the procession, some of the young men dancing and singing as they go. All this pomp and show, to celebrate renunciation of the world.

The farewells being said, the candidate is reconducted to his own home, where the feast has been prepared, and an elaborate bamboo tabernacle erected, extending from the house to the opposite side of the street. Here, in the presence of the priests, friends, and a host of gaudily-dressed spectators the actual ceremony is performed. The candidate's finery gives way to a strip of white cloth fastened around his loins, forming a very brief skirt. Then the barber is called in to deprive him of his long hair and shave his head. After a bath he dresses and presents himself before the priests, goes through the prescribed prostrations, repeats the memorized formula pledging himself as a novitiate, is duly clothed in the yellow robe of the order, the thabeit or begging-bowl is given him, and then he joins the other novitiates in their return to the monastery in which he is to live. How sad it seems to see a small boy thus shut out from the gay world, at just the time when he is fullest of fun and frolic,—but not half so sad as it seems.

Devout Buddhists may compel their sons to remain in the monastery three months, but to become a priest is not compulsory. In many places a week is the limit. Not infrequently a boy who has made the round of pathetic farewells, and gone through the whole ceremony of pledging himself to the Assembly, is back home again before night, having met all actual demands, and exchanged his fine head of hair for an interesting experience. And right glad he is to be back, for the feast is still on, and he comes in for a share of the dainties. Comparatively few give their lives to the priesthood. Some enter the priesthood later in life.

The longer the term—the greater the merit. The number of young men to remain in the monastery is steadily decreasing. The same is true of the number of men who thoroughly understand Buddhism. The festivities have not slackened, but with less and less religious significance in the minds of participants. Having been in the monastery the boy has become a human being. But whether before or after this ceremony he must receive the signs of manhood by being tattooed from his waist to his knees. If this is not done the boys and girls will poke fun at him and call him a woman. This tattooing may be done piece by piece, at intervals, to allow time for healing of the surface covered. The sessamum-oil lampblack used for ink, pricked into the skin on a large surface causes a great deal of swelling, and sometimes fever. The professional tattooer has his figure-patterns from which the boy or his parents may select.

The figures are usually animals, set off with an ornamental edging. Few boys have the nerve to endure the pricking very long. This is overcome by a dose of opium, deadening the sense of feeling, and dazing the mind, though not to such an extent as to keep him from puffing his cheroot while the operation is going on. Besides this tattooing of imitation breeches, there are many kinds of charms, done in vermilion on the upper parts of the body and arms, as desired by the superstitious.

Schoolboys have charms to protect them against the pain of whipping, young men have charms to make them successful in their wooing. Soldiers and dacoits have charms to protect them from bullets and dah-thrusts, and everybody has charms to render harmless all snake and insect bites. Besides the tattooed charms, certain objects are inserted under the skin, or carried about, according to the superstition of the individual, and representing about as high a type of intelligence as does the horseshoe over many a door in civilized lands.

The custom of tattooing is said to have originated many centuries ago, when the Burmans were subject to the Shan kings in Upper Burma. The Shans, who were themselves tattooed,—branded with tattoo-marks captives taken in war, as evidence of their servility. Instead of regarding this as humiliating, the Burmans were proud of their tattooing, as marks of the king. Moreover, the despised Chins, wild tribes in the north-western hills, did not tattoo. A non-tattooed Burman might be mistaken for a Chin, which would be humiliating indeed. Tattooing became popular, the custom spread rapidly, and now a full-grown Burman who is not the proud possessor of a pair of tattooed breeches that will last him a lifetime, is seldom found. In the jungle-villages nearly every boy is tattooed. In the towns the custom is rapidly dying out. Not five per cent. of Burman boys in the towns have submitted to this custom. Town boys are much more afraid of being taken for countrymen than of being made fun of for departing from the time-honoured custom. In fact, the town boy is as anxious to have it known that he is not tattooed as the unbreeched village boy would be to conceal it.

The fact that at the last census nine hundred and eighty six persons were returned as professional tattooers indicates that their business is still thriving, notwithstanding the disaffection of the town dudes.

The desire to ape English customs may have something to do with this backsliding. This is also noticeable in the habit, now popular among town boys, especially in the schools, of cutting the hair short. Only a few years ago a cropped head would have stamped one as a convict.

Girls are not tattooed except possibly an invisible love-charm,—but they furnish a companion-ceremony, when ear-boring time comes round.

It answers to the time when a girl in the home-land begins to think of getting out of short dresses, to be a child no longer.

When an ear-boring ceremony is announced everything else must take second place. The day and hour are fixed by the soothsayer, but he manages to make his divinations harmonize with the plans of the parents who engaged his services. In spite of the frightened girl's screams and struggles her ears are pierced with the gold or silver needle of the professional ear-borer, the tom-toms and horns of the band outside doing their best to drown her cries. The holes are kept open until they heal, and then they are gradually enlarged by wearing glass or metal tubes of increasing size, until finally a tube half an inch in diameter can be inserted. In the olden time the lobe of the ear was stretched much more than is now the fashion. I have seen old women with holes in their ears through which two fingers could be passed. Such ear-lobes furnished handy holders for their big cheroots. This stretching and elongating of the lobes of their ears formerly had a religious significance that is now being forgotten. All images of Gautama represent him with ear-lobes touching the shoulders, as a symbol of perfection.

Devout women,—and some of the men,—did their best to imitate his example. Ear jewelry may be inexpensive colored glass, or of gold elaborately designed and set with precious stones.

Once her ears are bored the girl puts an end to all street play with small-boy acquaintances, and poses as a young lady. Changes are observed in the style of dressing her hair; in her costume; in the use of cosmetics,—for every Burmese girl, though naturally brown, desires to be white; in her bearing as she walks the street; in every pose of her graceful body. She may not have so much freedom of action as she enjoyed before, but she knows it will not be long until some choice young man will want her, to adorn his household.

The one universal custom, common to all, both men and women, boys and girls alike, is the filthy habit of kun-chewing and smoking. The kun-chew is made up of part of a betel (areca) nut, chopped fine, and an astringent green leaf of a certain vine. A little lime-paste, usually coloured red, is spread on the leaf, then it is wadded up and jammed into the side of the mouth, with the betel nut. Saliva soon accumulates. To expectorate would be to lose some of the small pieces of the nut before the good had been extracted. Attempts at conversation are ridiculous and nauseating in the extreme. When the mouth can retain its load no longer its contents are discharged through a crack in the floor.

The white pony of a lady-missionary was once tethered under a native house for the night. What was the lady's disgust the next morning to find her beautiful pony all stained and bedaubed with vile red kun-juice. Smoking is begun before teething is finished. I myself have seen a mother take a lighted cheroot from her own mouth, and put it in the mouth of a wee child in her arms. Burmese ladies consider a cigar the finishing touch to their preparations for a dress-parade. But the Burman cigar contains but a small proportion of real tobacco leaf, otherwise the smoke-habit would soon kill off the race. They cannot both chew and smoke at the same time, but the twin habits keep them so busy that they accomplish little else. It is said that the Burman "smokes between chews, and chews between smokes."

It is simply marvellous how far a Burman can smell a rupee, and what methods he will employ to get it. Has the mission work to be done by carpenters, cartmen, etc., heathen Burmans are not wanting who will regularly attend chapel services, and pose as devout inquirers so long as the job lasts. I have known fortune-tellers, teachers, court-clerks, and common rice-cultivators to become pretended disciples with no other motive than to become preachers. They know that the native evangelists have regular salaries, and that the missionary takes a fatherly interest in their welfare, giving medicine when they are ill, advising when they are in difficulty. Though the salary is not large, it secures a fairly comfortable living, which is more than many a heathen is sure of the year round. So the wily heathen comes to our people, pretending to be deeply interested in Christianity, applies himself to learn all he can, attends worship, and finally asks for baptism, with every appearance of sincerity. One year we drew a prize, "Saya Tike" he was called. "Saya" because he had charge of a small private school. He was past middle age, of uncommon intelligence, and fine bearing. A more earnest and devout inquirer, to all appearances, we never met. After some months of waiting he was baptized and received into the church. Then began his tale of woe. In consequence of his becoming a Christian his school had been broken up. Persecutors had broken into his house and stolen his clothing. Friendless, penniless, and out of a situation, he appealed to the missionary for something to do. Being fairly handy as a carpenter he was given such work on the mission buildings. After about two weeks he suddenly disappeared. Some weeks passed before we could get any clue to his whereabouts. Then one day one of our preachers met him in a jungle-village wearing the yellow robe of a Buddhist priest. When asked why he had left the mission he complained that instead of being employed as a teacher he had only carpenter work to do. He preferred being a "pongyi," and have his food given him. Some months later he again turned up at the mission, professing repentance for his backsliding, and asking to be received back again. Our faith in him had been badly shaken, but we tried not to show it. If we would only give him citizen's clothing in place of his yellow robe he would gladly go to work again. Giving him the benefit of a doubt I arranged with my right-hand man to give him a longyi, such as the other men were wearing. No, he did not like a longyi, but must have the more stylish puhso. His taste not being gratified, back he went again to his heathenism. We soon learned that all his pathetic stories of persecution had been trumped up for the occasion, to excite our sympathy, and secure a position.

One day a strange Burman came to the mission. He said that he was a Christian from a mission fifty miles away. On the train he had been robbed of his clothing and the little money he had. All he wanted was to be kept over night, and money enough to pay his way home. The case was referred to me. I placed the required sum in the hands of my man "Friday" with instructions to give it to the applicant should he prove worthy. The next morning my man came to report, and to give back the money. I said to him, "Well, Ko Ngi, how did you find out that he was a humbug?" Replying in broken English, he said "Last night we have meeting (evening prayers). I think, you proper Christian, I make you pray. He no know anything. He can't pray proper. Then I say—Your Saya (missionary) how many chillen? He say 'Four little boy, so much big.' I know he Saya done got five chillen,—one so much girl," indicating with hand a full grown young lady. So he had sent the man away without the hand of fellowship, and returned the money.

Among non-Christian Burmans sin, of whatever sort, is sin only when discovered. "How could it be sin when nobody knew anything about it?" Deceit is practiced without a pang of conscience so long as the game can be worked.

The missionary is kind-hearted, supposed to have plenty of money, like other "Europeans," and is considered legitimate prey.

[IV]
CHIEF RACES OF BURMA

Reliable history of Burma dates back only to the early part of the eighteenth century. Burmese chronicles claim to cover a period from seven to eight hundred years before the Christian era. The Burmese language certainly was not reduced to writing earlier than the fifth century of the Christian era.

Early history is founded upon legend. Doubtless many of the events recorded actually happened, but their dates are hopelessly mixed, and events themselves distorted by exaggeration. Measured by their records of the Burmese-English wars of the nineteenth century, in which every reverse was written down as a great victory,—all of the history prior to the eighteenth century is utterly untrustworthy. Much may be learned from other sources, but the information is at best fragmentary and conflicting. In 1795, the time of the first "Embassy to Ava," historical facts dating back to the early part of the century were gathered and verified. From that time the history of Burma, compiled by Europeans, is fairly continuous and accurate. In giving a brief sketch of the chief races of Burma, the main facts of history will appear. The chief races, in order of numbers, are the Burmans, Shans, Karens, Talaings, Chins, and Kachins. Taken in the order of priority, the Talaings, according to the theory which seems to me to have most in its favour,—come first in order. This theory is that they were the first of all the many races of Burma to migrate southward from Tibet, or neighbouring parts of Asia. They seem to have been of the same race as the Burmans. They still retain the same general characteristics and customs, and cannot be distinguished from the Burmans where the two races mingle. The time of this migration is not known, but it may safely be placed many centuries before the Christian era. It is probable that they gradually drifted southward until they reached Burma. The Burmans, coming from the same general source long afterwards, failed to recognize the Talaings as having any kinship to themselves. The fact that the Talaing language is utterly unlike the Burmese, both in root words, and in construction of sentences indicates that the two races, or two sections of the same race, as the case may be,—were kept quite distinct prior to the migration of the Talaings. The Burmans, who held the Talaings in contempt, finally became indebted to them in a threefold manner,—by the adoption of the Talaing system of writing, the Buddhist religion, and the sacred books in which it was recorded.

The sacred books were brought to Thatone from Ceylon, by Buddhist missionaries not earlier than 386 a. d. These books were written in Pali, which is still the religious language of Buddhism. The Talaings soon reduced their own language to writing, not adopting the Pali characters, but drawing chiefly from the Tamil, with a change from the square to the round shaped letters.

It is well known that there was a colony of Tamils near Thatone at that early date. The old theory that the Talaings descended from the Telugus, and that their original home was in Talingana, is now generally discredited. Little is known of them prior to the Christian era, scant mention of them being found in Burmese chronicles, and having none of their own, covering their early history. Whatever chronicles they may have had were destroyed by the Burmese conquerors.

The Talaings seem to have been in control in the first century, a. d., from the Gulf of Martaban to the upper Irawadi. They founded Pegu in the sixth century, but lost it, as well as Thatone to the Burmans in the eleventh century. The present city of Pegu was founded by the Talaings in the sixteenth century, and they have since been known as Peguans. The term Talaing is said to have been applied to them by the Burmese as a term of reproach, the word meaning "the down-trodden." They call themselves Mons,—but "Talaings" they will be, so long as they maintain a distinct existence. In 1385 they were again in power at Pegu, and two years later at Martaban. In 1410 they had extended their sway to Arracan, which they held until 1423. The Talaings of Pegu and Martaban were conquered by the Burmans in 1551. But in 1740 we find them again to the front. Taking advantage of the recklessness of the Burman king the Talaings, in alliance with a colony of Shans living near Pegu, seized that town, and soon afterwards were in possession of Prome and Toungoo. In 1752, aided, it is said, by renegade Dutch and Portuguese, and with firearms procured from European traders, they invaded the upper country, capturing and burning Ava, the capital of the Burman kingdom. Three years later Alaungpra recaptured Ava, driving the Talaings southward, and in 1755 followed with his army to Rangoon, destroying the Talaing power. The Burmans having regained possession of the whole country, retained control until they had to yield to the greater power of the English. Descendants of the Talaings who remained in the Pegu district, have practically lost their identity, readily and willingly passing as Burmans. The main body retired to the country east of the Gulf of Martaban. In consequence of an exodus, probably more than one,—of Talaings into Siam after unsuccessful wars with the Burmans, joining the many already in that country, there are now more Talaings in Siam than in Burma. It is even claimed that Siam got her code of laws from the Talaings. The census of 1901 gives the number of Talaings in Burma as 321,898. The number will increase year by year, as many are returning to Burma from Siam. Thousands of Talaings scattered through the country doubtless returned themselves as Burmans, without so much as recalling that their ancestors were Talaings. Many prophesy that the Talaing language will in time, die out. This may be true, for the Burmanizing process is slowly, steadily, irresistibly going on. Nearly half of the Talaings in Burma speak Burmese, many of them speaking Burmese only. But this still leaves a large body beyond the reach of Burmanizing influences, waiting for the gospel in their own tongue. If the Talaings—as a race, are to be evangelized in this generation or the next, the gospel must be given to them in their own language.

THE BURMESE

The original home of all so-called indigenous races is still in doubt. The bulk of evidence seems to be in favour of the borders of Tibet as the original home of the race known as Burmese. To one who knows the characteristics of these people it is difficult to conceive of such a migration, except under compulsion. In the census report of 1901 we find them described as follows: "The Burman as we know him, is essentially a non-migrating, unbusinesslike, irresponsible creature, perfectly incapable of sustained effort, content with what can be gained by a minimum of toil." That the race ever voluntarily left its original home, whatever the attraction, seems incredible. The Burman himself solves the mystery by claiming celestial origin. Brahmas dwelling in the celestial regions came down to dwell on earth. At first they existed as semi-supernatural beings, living above the ordinary appetites and passions of men. By extending their diet to kinds of food not allowed to such beings they gradually lost their supernatural attributes, and finally became like ordinary mortals. The Burmans proudly claim lineal descent from these Brahmas. Their argument, quite conclusive to themselves, is based on the similarity between Brahma and Bam-ma, as they call themselves. Philologists, with cruel disregard for the feelings of these people, have utterly spoiled their pretty theory. Brahma is a Hindoo term, introduced long after the Burmese migration. So now there is nothing left to substantiate their cherished belief,—except the national habit of wanting to eat everything they see. In both history and religion legend is inextricably mixed with facts and fancies imported with Buddhism. Burman tradition, backed by ancient ruins on the upper Irrawadi, assert that Sakya tribes from central northern India, migrating by way of Manipur, settled in Upper Burma a few centuries before the Christian era. It is difficult to account for such ruins as are to be seen at Tagaung, on any other theory. These ruins can hardly be the remains of work accomplished by any of the indigenous races of Burma, in their barbarous condition. The claim that the first Burmese monarchy received its stimulus from these Indian princes can neither be proved nor disproved. In any event whatever remained of the foreign tribes was assimilated by the Mongoloid peoples who were first in the land.

An incursion of Shans before the opening of the Christian era, themselves forced out of western China, seems to have caused the downfall of the kingdom of the Indian tribes, if they really had one.

Shans, rather than Burmans, then became supreme in the upper Irrawadi valley. Not until as late as the eleventh century did the Burmans regain their supremacy, and even then the Shans continued to hold the country north of Bhamo. In the Burman war of conquest in the south at this time, the main object was to secure the Buddhist Scriptures, known to be in possession of the Talaings at Thatone. These sacred books, obtainable in no other way, were essential to the king's purpose to reform the imperfect Buddhism of the north. There is some evidence that Buddhism was introduced into Upper Burma from India, by way of Manipur, several centuries before it was brought to Lower Burma from Ceylon.

It is evident that Upper Burma did not have the Buddhist sacred books prior to the eleventh century. Northern Buddhism was only super-added to the existing rites of Naga, and spirit worship.

In the south the sacred books had already been translated from Pali into Talaing, but not into Burmese. With the importation of the sacred books into Upper Burma, and their translation from Talaing into Burmese, the real history of Buddhism among the Burmese began.

It is not known when this translation was begun, nor when the Burmans, by adopting the Talaing system, reduced their language to writing. Some of the later translations of Pali writings into Burmese direct, were made about the beginning of the nineteenth century.

The Burmese "Pagan Monarchy," weakened by bad government and luxurious living, came to an untimely end in the thirteenth century, through an invasion of the Chinese. The Shans in the north held the balance of power, and may have agreed to the subordination of Burma to China, as the Chinese have always claimed.

Buddhist Shrines

In the fourteenth century a new king, nominally Burmese, but connected with the Shans,—came into full power, and founded Ava. But early in the fifteenth century (1426) the Burmans lost their capital and all the territory north of Toungoo and Prome, to the Shans. The new city of Toungoo, built about this time, was the seat of an independent prince. Pegu had been ruled by kings of Shan race since 1281. In 1538-9 the Toungoo Burman prince, Tabin Shwe' Htee, conquered Pegu, in the following year Martaban, and after being proclaimed king in Pegu, extended his sway in 1542, as far north as Pagan. Two years later, with an allied army of Burmans, Shans and Talaings, he invaded and conquered Arracan, but not Chittagong. But his success as king at Pegu was short-lived. Expensive but fruitless wars, and excessive dissipation turned the people against him. He soon became the victim of a conspiracy and was treacherously murdered. In 1551 the Burmans were again victorious at Pegu, pursuing and destroying the Talaing king. Three years later they regained Ava from the Shans, but retained the capital at Pegu. Pressing his successes, the Burman king, in 1557, conquered the Shans in the extreme north of Burma, and a little later at Thibaw, Mone and "Zimme"; northern Siam becoming tributary to Burma. Steps were taken to make the then non-Buddhist Shans (many were doubtless already Buddhists), conform to the Buddhist customs of the Burmese. The Burman ruler, Nawartha, was now what his ambition craved,—the "King of Kings."

But before the end of the century Pegu and all the territory south to Tavoy had been lost. Between 1600 and 1613 a Portuguese adventurer named Philip de Brito reigned as king of Pegu, with residence at his own fortified city of Syriam. By the marriage of his son with the daughter of the king of Martaban, the cooperation of that section was secured. In 1612 De Brito and the king of Martaban marched against the prince of Toungoo, who had broken faith with De Brito by forming an alliance with Ava. "They plundered the city, burned the palace and retired." This high-handed aggression soon reacted on his own head.

The Burman king advanced from Ava with an immense army, laid seige to Syriam, and starved the garrison to surrender. De Brito, who had been guilty of many sacrilegious acts, destroying pagodas and other sacred objects in search of plunder, could hope for no mercy at the hands of his captors. The leading Portuguese were slaughtered. The remainder, including the women, were carried away captive to Ava as slaves. Their descendants may now be found throughout Burma, many of them being Roman Catholic priests. In 1634 Ava was made the permanent capital.

An immense pagoda was built, and a costly image of Gautama cast to add to the sacredness of the place, and to the merit of the king.

But Burman fortunes were uncertain. Ava the Great was taken and burned by the Talaings in 1752. Not long were the Talaings allowed to hold the Burman capital. A Burman who took the name of Alaungpra, with wonderful vigour and ability rallied his people. Little more than a year had passed when Alaungpra recaptured Ava. In 1755 he took his armies southward, conquering as he went, not content until he reached Dagon. There he founded a new city, which he designed should be the chief port of Burma, and named it Rangon (or Yangon), the word meaning the war ended.

A legend says that Dagon village was founded and the Shwe Dagon pagoda built in 586 b. c., which is probably within a few centuries of the true date. The village was rebuilt by the Talaing king of Pegu about 744 a. d. The great pagoda, upon which an expensive htee or umbrella had been placed in 1540, was still further improved, "to rival the one at Pegu." (The present htee was placed on the Shwe Dagon pagoda in 1871, by Mindon Min.) But the Talaing capital of Lower Burma, Pegu, had not yet been taken. We have seen that in 1613 Syriam was destroyed by the Burmans because of De Brito's aggressions.

Now, in 1755, both British and French traders were established there. During the struggles between the Burmans and Talaings, the Europeans hardly knew which should have their favour and help. Everything depended on being on the side which should prove victorious.

Alaungpra, after securing Rangoon, returned to Ava. This was interpreted as a sign of weakness, and thereafter the Europeans openly showed their sympathy with the Talaings. When the Talaings attacked the Burmese, they were assisted by the ships of both British and French.

But alas, Alaungpra returned early in the following year. After a blockade of several months Syriam was taken and destroyed, including the European factories. The principal Europeans, after being held a short time as prisoners, were put to death. The downfall of Pegu soon followed, marking the end of Talaing supremacy.

Six years later, 1762, Sagaing became the capital of the Burmese Empire. Passing over the wars with Siam, Manipur, and China, we find the capital changed, in 1783, to Amarapura, a new city built for the purpose. The following year Arracan was invaded and conquered. The most valued booty was an immense brass image of Gautama, cast in the second century, said to possess miraculous powers. This image, taken over the mountains, a wonderful feat, was placed in a building erected for the purpose, on the north side of Amarapura, the new capital, where it may now be seen by visitors to the "Arracan Pagoda."

In 1795 the first envoy to the king of Burma was sent by the government of India. The envoy was not well received, and secured no permanent advantage. The following year another was deputed to be resident at Rangoon, instead of Ava. He met with the same discourteous treatment, and accomplished nothing. Up to 1812 five successive attempts were made to arrive at an understanding with the Burman king, with reference to political and commercial relations, but without success. Envoys were either ignored or made the bearers of insolent replies. At this time war between England and the United States was about to begin. Adoniram Judson was getting ready to sail as a foreign missionary.

In 1823 the capital was restored to Ava. A great fire at Amarapura destroying some of the royal buildings, together with certain "bad signs," induced the king to abandon the city which had been in existence only forty years. During the previous year the Burmans had overrun Manipur and parts of Assam, and claimed the territory as a part of the Burman Empire. The first battle ever fought between the Burmese and English was at Cachar—in January, 1824. The Burmans were defeated. In 1824-5 the British and native troops succeeded in driving the Burmans back into their own country. The bulk of the Burmese army had already been recalled to repel the British who were advancing from the south, war having been formerly declared in March, 1824. In the meantime the American missionaries, Judson and Price, together with all Europeans at Ava were imprisoned as suspected spies, or in league with the enemy.

After eleven months they were transferred to Aungbinle, with the intention to put them to death. The first Burmese war lasted two years.

Arracan, and all the country east of the Gulf of Martaban was ceded to the British. Rangoon reverted to the Burmese. But the most interesting result to American readers, was the release of the missionaries, Judson and Price, who were utilized as messengers to negotiate the terms of surrender. After the second installment of indemnity had been paid, and the British troops withdrawn to territory ceded by the humiliated king the following record of the affair was added to the royal chronicles. "In the years 1186, 1187 (Burmese) the white strangers of the west fastened a quarrel upon the Lord of the Golden Palace.

"They landed at Rangoon, took that place and Prome, and were permitted to advance as far as Yandabu, for the king, from motives of piety and regard to life, made no preparation whatever to oppose them. The strangers had spent vast sums of money in their enterprise, so that by the time they reached Yandabu their resources were exhausted, and they were in great distress. They then petitioned the king, who, in his clemency and generosity, sent them large sums of money to pay their expenses back, and ordered them out of the country." The record modestly omitted to mention the fact that the strangers had permission to take with them the Arracan, Ye, Tavoy, Mergui, and Tenasserim provinces!

The whole period from 1826 to the second Burmese-English war, in 1852, was marked by heartless cruelties inflicted by successive Burman kings upon all real or suspected offenders; by persistent repudiation of the terms agreed upon at the close of the first war; and by gross insults to British representatives. The second Burmese-English war lasted a year and a half, and resulted in the annexation of the Province of Pegu, which included Rangoon and extended to a point about thirty miles north of Toungoo. In about 1837 the capital was again transferred to Amarapura, where it remained until Mandalay was founded, in 1860, by Mindon Min. A new king, Mindon Min, was soon proclaimed at Amarapura. Throughout his reign, from 1853 to 1878, relations between the British and Burmese were greatly improved. Mindon Min was the best king Burma ever had. Moreover, the loss of Arracan, Tenasserim, and Pegu had inspired some degree of respect for representatives of the British Indian Government. With the death of Mindon, and the ascension of Thibaw, trouble began. The great massacre, in which about seventy of royal blood, including women and children, were ruthlessly butchered, called forth a vigorous remonstrance from the British Government. An insolent reply was returned, rejecting outside interference.

In August 1879 the resident at Mandalay was withdrawn. Massacres soon followed, rivalling the horrors of the past. At this time many thousands of Burmese migrated to Lower Burma to escape oppression.

Thibaw then began a flirtation with France. The Bombay Burma Trading Company was accused of defrauding the king in the matter of royalty on teak logs. An enormous fine was inflicted. Arbitration was rejected. The French were conspiring with the king to gain commercial advantages, giving them practically full control of Upper Burma, including the only route to western China. In June, 1885, the government of India obtained conclusive evidence as to the nature of these negotiations. A demand was made that a British resident be received at Mandalay, and that Thibaw reveal his foreign policy. This ultimatum was refused. The British immediately advanced on the capital. On the 28th of November, 1885, Mandalay was taken, and King Thibaw made a prisoner. The great, self-sufficient Burman kingdom had fallen to rise no more.

French diplomatists had outreached themselves, and precipitated the annexation of Upper Burma.

On the first of January, 1886, the following proclamation was issued: "By command of the Queen-Empress it is hereby notified that the territories formerly governed by King Thibaw will no longer be under his rule, but have become a part of Her Majesty's dominions, and will during Her Majesty's pleasure, be administered by such officers as the viceroy and government of India may from time to time appoint."

It will be seen that the Burmese throughout their history have been a warlike people. The adoption of Buddhism, as the national religion, with its strict rules concerning the taking of life, does not seem to have wrought any change in this respect. The grossest cruelties were practiced, suspected conspirators slaughtered by hundreds, generals who had failed in battle, as well as others of high rank or noble blood were executed, sewed up in red sacks, and sunk in the Irrawadi River. Sometimes the preliminary execution was dispensed with.

Victorious kings built great pagodas, at the expense of the people, to expiate their sins of bloodshed,—and then renewed the carnage.

The cruelties inflicted upon Judson and his companions at Ava and Aungbinle; the history of Burman dacoity since the English occupation; together with many other evidences,—stamp the Burman as far from being the tolerant, peace-loving, life-reverencing character that many of his admirers, on the interest of Buddhism, or Theosophy, have pictured. It is said that a professor in a certain theological seminary, seeking to cast discredit on the historical authenticity of the Book of Daniel, called the attention of his class to the unlikelihood that any Oriental monarch would have issued such decrees as are attributed to Nebuchadnezzar, in the third chapter. To say nothing of Mohammedan fanaticism, familiarity with Oriental character as exhibited by Burman kings would have dispelled the professor's doubts.

When Naungdawgyi had completed the great Shwe Dagon pagoda, in comparison with which Nebuchadnezzar's image was Liliputian, he made a decree that all peoples must fall down and worship it, on penalty of death. The majority of the people being spirit-worshippers, the decree could not be enforced. To let himself down easily, the king commanded that a nat-sin, or spirit-house be erected near the pagoda. The people coming to make offerings to the nats—would also be coming to the pagoda, and so the decree would be obeyed, and, in time, its purpose effected. The character of the Burman king Bodaw-para, who was on the throne when Judson came to Burma, is thus described by Father San-Germano, who lived in Burma twenty years during this king's reign. "His very countenance is the index of a mind ferocious and inhuman in the highest degree,—and it would not be an exaggeration to assert that during his reign more victims have fallen by the hand of the executioner than by the sword of the common enemy....

"The good fortune that has attended him ... has inspired him with the idea that he is something more than mortal, and that this privilege has been granted him on account of his numerous good works....

"A few years since he thought to make himself a god." He did in fact, proclaim himself as the fulfillment of the national expectation of a fifth Buddha. Priests who refused to recognize his claims, were punished. Who can doubt that the late King Thibaw would have been quite capable of repeating Nebuchadnezzar's decree, had he thought of it, and seen any advantage in it, to himself.

The census of 1901 gives the total population of the province as 10,490,624. Of this total the Burmese number 6,508,682, while the number returning the Burmese language as their ordinary tongue was 7,006,495. The total number of Buddhists, including the Shans and Talaings, is 9,184,121. The area of the province is 286,738 square miles. To the casual visitor the country seems to be peopled almost exclusively by Burmese, and Buddhism the only form of worship, the other races inhabiting isolated parts of the country, far removed from the main lines of travel. The population of Rangoon is about 235,000. Buddhists and Hindus number about the same, with more than half as many Musalmans as of either. Fifty per cent. of the population are immigrants. Rangoon is no longer a Burman city.

In Mandalay, their last capital, and second city of Burma, the situation is quite different. In a total of 178,000 over 152,000 are Buddhists. This city has been in existence only sixty-three years. Its outward appearance is much the same as it was when taken by the British in 1885. The same brick wall, twenty-six feet high, with its crenelated top, a mile and a quarter on each side of the square, forming an impregnable (!) barrier against all comers,—still surrounds what was the royal town. On each side are three gates, reached by bridges across the wide moat, which is kept filled with water by a connection with a natural lake a few miles to the northeast.

Burmese Woman Weaving

Inside of the walled town comparatively little now remains as it was when captured. The natives occupying thatched houses, were compelled to move outside the wall, taking their shanties with them. For this they were amply compensated by the British Indian Government. A large city, regularly laid out with straight wide streets, was already flourishing outside of the walled section. Within the walls the palace and monasteries still remain, the former now being restored by the provincial government, at great expense. Services of the Church of England are held in one of the large halls. In one of the buildings near the palace the Mandalay Club is comfortably established. Several old cannon, used by the Burmese in their wars, more for the noise they could make than for any death-dealing powers they possessed, now adorn the grounds. The king's monastery, and the queen's monastery, are objects of interest. Near the former is the site of the "Incomparable" temple, destroyed by fire in 1892. This immense structure, with its gilded columns and lofty ceiling, was the grandest building in the city. Near by is a huge pagoda within a high rectangular wall. The space enclosed is subdivided into three compartments by low walls extending around the pagoda, to represent the threefold division of the Buddhist scriptures. These spaces contain seven hundred and twenty shrines about fifteen feet high, their tops supported by four columns. In the centre of each shrine, set like a gravestone in the cement floor, is a stone tablet about three feet wide by five and a half feet high, covered on both sides with portions of the sacred writings. The floor around each tablet is polished by the bare feet of many devotees,—for the "Law" is one of the "three precious things" of Buddhism—commanding their worship. For all this immense outlay of time and money devoted to sacred objects Mindon Min is supposed to have secured the royal merit, freeing him from the countless existences through which the ordinary mortal must pass. The prevailing impression that as a result of the monastic school system all of the Burmese males can read and write, is not corroborated by the recent census. A little less than half (490 in each 1,000) are able to both read and write. Doubtless a large majority spent enough of their childhood in the monastery to acquire these accomplishments, but, to many, they have become lost arts, through disuse. Only fifty-five in each thousand of Burmese women can read and write. Girls are not admitted to monastic schools. This small gain is chiefly due to mission schools. The demand for female education is rapidly increasing. All Burmans, except the relatively small number of converts to Christianity, are Buddhists. Nearly all are worshippers of idols.

A sect called Paramats was founded at the beginning of last century. The Paramats will have nothing to do with pagodas and idols. They respect the ordinary Buddhist priests, as representatives of Gautama, who was the incarnation of eternal wisdom. They do not hold that eternal wisdom is reincarnated in the priests, and therefore do not worship them as orthodox Buddhists do. This eternal wisdom, which existed before the world was made, and will exist throughout eternity, fills all space, but exercises no influence over this world. Eternal wisdom is not, except in a very vague sense, personified—as an equivalent of the Christian conception of an eternal God. But the Paramats have the germ of a true belief, and, as a rule, are thinking men, which is more than can be said of the ordinary Buddhist. Numerous in the district midway between Mandalay, and Rangoon, they furnish a hopeful field for missionary effort.

THE SHANS

The Shans rank second in point of numbers. Max Muller held that the Shans were the first to leave their original home in western China. Contact with the Chinese has left its mark upon them, sufficient, apart from other evidence, to prove their origin. Having been forced out of western China they drifted southward, and founded some of the large towns in the territory now known as "Shan-land" as early as 400, or 500 b. c.—if their own chronicles can be believed. But at this point different conclusions have been reached from the same sources of information, some accepting these dates as approximately correct, others rejecting them as too remote by several centuries. Indeed, it is difficult to determine whether the first migration was southward, or to the southwest, or whether there were two migrations simultaneously. As we have seen in our study of the Burmese, the Shans were supreme on the Upper Irrawadi early in the Christian era, having expelled the Burmese and taken possession of that part of the country. It may have been as early as 400 or 500 b. c., when they overthrew the Tagaung monarchy. My own view is that the Shans first migrated to the southwest across the Namkham valley, founding the "Maw Kingdom," which finally extended to the Irrawadi and Chindwin rivers in northern Burma. And that not until several centuries later did they extend their sway to the southeast, founding Thibaw, Mone, and other towns.

That there is a discrepancy of ten centuries or more between this view and the Shan Chronicles, in which the most striking feature is exaggeration, need not disturb any one. In fact, a sound "principle of interpretation" of legendary history, whether Burmese or Shan, is to cut down its figures by about one half.

Near the end of the tenth century the Shans occupied Arracan about eighteen years. The Shan kingdom continued until overcome by the Burmese, in the middle of the eleventh century. They still remained in power in the far north. In 1281 Shans from Siam joining with Shans of Martaban, conquered Martaban, then with assistance of Shans from the north they captured Pegu from the Burmans. At the beginning of the fourteenth century the Shans were again in the ascendant in Upper Burma, the Burmans having been weakened by Chinese invasions. The Shans now ruled the country from the upper reaches of the Irrawadi as far south as Prome, but not including Toungoo. All Burma was threatened with Shan supremacy. This might have been realized but for the Shan emperor's own recklessness and tyranny, working his own downfall.

Kings of Shan race controlled Pegu from 1281 until conquered by the Toungoo Burman prince, Tabin Shwe' Htee, in 1539. The Shan power in the north having become weakened, the Burmese in 1554, captured Ava, and in 1557 conquered the Shans throughout the Upper Irrawadi region. Thibaw, Mone, and "Zimme" in northern Siam, fell to the Burmans a year later. The Shans seem to have remained subject to the Burman kings until the annexation of Upper Burma; and sometimes assisted the Burmans in their wars with the Talaings and Siamese.

The census of 1901 gives a total of 751,759 Shan-speaking people.

Besides the northern and southern Shan States, a large number of Shans are still found in Upper Burma, and many Shan villages throughout Lower Burma. It is not definitely known when the Shans adopted Buddhism. There are evidences that the Shans, who were supreme on the Upper Irrawadi at the opening of the Christian era, and for several centuries after, were influenced by Buddhism introduced from India by way of Manipur, and that many accepted it. After the introduction of Buddhism from the south it spread rapidly among the Burmese, and through them to the Shans, becoming the national religion of both races.

It is said that many Shan Buddhist priests sought reordination according to the rules of the southern type of Buddhism.

The Shans established monasteries throughout their country. Under the later Burman kings, Burman priests were sent to propagate Buddhism in the Shan country. In some places the sacred books were destroyed, and other books written in the Burmese language substituted, Burmese becoming the language of the Monastic schools for Shan boys.

Burman kings adopted the same tactics in dealing with the Talaings.

The customs of the Shans and the Burmese are much the same, but their costume is more like that of the Chinese. The same is true of the Karen costume. Though differing from the costume of the Shan, both seem to have been derived from their contact with the Chinese before their migration to Burma. The broad lopped-rim Shan hat and flowing trousers with the seat between the knees differentiate the Shan from other races. They have a written language, adopted from the Burmese,—some four or five hundred years ago,—as the Burmese had adopted theirs from the Talaing.

THE KARENS

The Karens found their way in Burma from western China; forced southward by the Chinese. Then when the Shans were in like manner driven into Burma, the Karens were pushed on still further south, like driftwood before the tide. Their original home is uncertain. It seems evident that at a much earlier period they had migrated into western China from some place still further north. One of their own traditions is that their ancestors, in their wanderings, crossed a "river of sand."

The desert of Gobi best answers to their tradition. Other traditions point to western China as their early home. It is not unlikely that the tradition of the "river of sand" is much the older, and these traditions taken together mark the progress of the Karens in at least two widely separated migrations southward. The Karens strongly resemble certain hill-tribes now living in western China; in fact some of the Karens have identically the same customs, as these China hill-tribes, who are also said to have the tradition of a "river of sand."

There are three main divisions of the Karens, known as Pwo, Sgaw, and Karennee or "Red Karens." This threefold division antedates their migration to Burma. The Pwos, sometimes called "the mother race," are supposed to have been the first arrivals, working their way south by the way of the valleys of the Salwen and Mekong Rivers; followed by the Sgaws, and finally by the Karennees, though it is doubtful whether there was any interval between these main divisions in the general migration. But in some way they have—to this day—maintained the distinction. It is probable that for a time the Karens held the territory now known as the eastern Shan states, and all the upper Salwen region. The coming of the Shans, whether from the north or west, drove them southward, each of these tribal divisions advancing under compulsion in the same order in which they first entered the country.

The Pwos are now found in the delta and still farther south in the Maulmain district; the Karennees farther north, bordering on the Shan country, and east to the Siam border; the Sgaws keeping to the central territory, in the Toungoo district and diagonally across to Bassein, sharing parts of the delta with the Pwos. A large body of Sgaw Karens, as well as many Pwos, are found in the Tavoy district, farthest south of all. The Tavoy Karens drifted in from Siam, not extending to the seacoast until early in the last century.

There is now a continuous chain of Karens from Tavoy far into the north of Siam. In general, the Karens live in the highlands, the Burmans occupying the plains. Formerly this was partly from choice, but unavoidable whether from choice or not, on account of the cruel oppression suffered at the hands of the more powerful Burmans. But under British rule many Karens have come down to the plains, and forming villages of their own, have engaged in cultivation. They still like to be within easy reach of the mountains, to which they resort for game and other food.

In the shady ravines they have profitable gardens of betel (areca) palms, the nut being essential to any native's happiness, and commanding a ready sale. Some writers have advanced the theory that the religious traditions of the Karens were derived from their supposed contact with Nestorian Jews in western China. This can hardly be true—as it places the migration of the Karens to Burma at much too late a date.

The Nestorians did not begin their work in western China until 505 a. d., closing it in 1368, when they were expelled by the Mongols.

It seems certain that the Karens were already in Burma long before the Nestorian missionaries went to China. (Marco Polo's Roman Catholic mission-work in western China did not begin until 1271.)

If it is true that the large towns in Shan-land were founded by the Shans four or five hundred years before the Christian era, the migration of the Karens must be placed at an even earlier period,—but that early date is doubtful. The non-Christian Karens are, and always have been spirit-worshippers. This so-called worship is limited to propitiatory sacrifice. In this respect they are at one with all the races of Burma, not excepting the Burman Buddhists, though the latter have abandoned bloody sacrifice. Before the adoption of Buddhism the Burmans, Shans and Talaings were spirit-worshippers pure and simple. Spirit-worshippers they still are, with the forms of Buddhism for a veneering.

But the Karens have many religious traditions, so closely following the Bible accounts of the creation, fall, flood, and other events as to furnish strong evidence that in bygone ages their ancestors somewhere were in touch with the people of God. In spite of their spirit-worship they have retained a belief in a Supreme Being, and long looked forward to the time when God's Word, which they had lost, should be restored to them. God was believed to be a benevolent Being, but so far away that he had nothing to do with men. All spirits were believed to be evil, vengeful and near at hand. Therefore the Supreme Being was left out of their worship, and sacrifices offered to propitiate evil spirits who might work harm to them, by causing sickness, destruction of crops, and many other possible misfortunes. The Karens contend that in making offerings to the evil spirits they were not showing disloyalty to the Supreme Being. They illustrate their position by the following story: "Some children left in a place of supposed safety by their parents, were so frightened by the approach of a tiger that they threw down the cliff some pigs that had taken refuge with them. Their eyes, however, were not fixed on the tiger, but on the path by which they expected their father to come. Their hands fed the tiger from fear, but their ears were eagerly listening for the twang of their father's bowstring, which should send the arrow quivering into the tiger's heart." "And so, although we have to make sacrifices to demons, our hearts are still true to God. We must throw sops to the demons who afflict us, but our hearts were looking for God."

The history of the Karens in Burma has been a sad one. For centuries they had been grievously oppressed by the Burmans, who robbed them, carried away captives into slavery, and kept the Karens pent up in the most inaccessible parts of the mountain ranges.

Under British rule the Karens are safe from serious molestation, but the old feeling still remains, and they hold aloof from the Burman as much as possible. The coming of the Christian missionary, restoring to them the knowledge of the true God so vaguely known through their traditions, was the great event to which the whole Karen nation had so long looked forward. Multitudes readily accepted Christianity. By its power they were emancipated from the domination of evil spirits; the swords and spears of tribal feuds were forged into pruning hooks; and the whole Christian world rejoiced in the glorious spectacle of "A nation in a day." The census of 1901 gives a total of nearly 714,000 Karens, of all tribes. Many more are found in Siam. It has been asserted that "more languages are spoken in Assam than in any other country in the world." The same may be said of Burma. The recent census recognized fifty-seven indigenous races or tribes, and as many more non-indigenous. In the Toungoo district the missionaries meet with several Karen dialects not mentioned in the census enumeration, but so distinct that one tribe does not understand the dialect of another.

In some localities one meets with a new dialect in each village through which he passes in a day's journey. Ye shades of Shinar! confusion of tongues,—twice confounded. It seems incredible that so many families of one race, occupying the same territory, and with practically the same habits, customs, and superstitions,—should each perpetuate for centuries its own peculiar dialect and clannish exclusiveness. The missionary or official, to do effective work among such a people, needs a small army of interpreters at his heels.

THE KACHINS

The Kachins inhabit the extreme northern part of Burma, extending as far south as the Bhamo and Namkham districts, and east into China. The Kachins are own cousins to the Nagas of the adjacent hill tract of Assam, who call themselves "Singpho." "Kachin" is a name applied to these people by the Burmans. The Kachins of Burma call themselves "Chingpaw." This quite suits their kinsmen of Assam, who look down upon the Chingpaws as unworthy the grand name of Singpho. Both terms seem to mean "men,"—but men in distinction from the inferior races around them. The census of 1901 gives a total of 65,510 Kachins in Burma alone. The early missionaries held that the Kachins and Karens were of the same origin; that the Kachins were really Karens, from whom the southern Karens had become separated. This view seemed substantiated by the people themselves; by some of their customs,—such as the manner in which their houses are constructed and partitioned off; by a certain similarity of language—many common nouns said to be common to both languages, and by their spirit-worship. It is now generally admitted that the Kachins and Karens are not of the same origin. In bygone ages they may have been neighbours, if not more closely related,—in the borders of Tartary,—but at a very remote period. Certainly they did not migrate to Burma at the same time, nor by the same route. The Kachins have traditions that they migrated to Burma by way of the headwaters of the Irrawadi,—that their primal ancestor lived at "Majoi Shingra Pum." In his "Handbook of the Kachin Language," H. F. Hertz says: "I have succeeded in obtaining the views of several old men, Tumsas and Faiwas, who might be described as Kachin priests. It would seem from these that 'Majoi Shingra Pum' is a high table-land with very few trees, frequently covered with snow, and very cold.

"Now, the name 'Majoi Shingra Pum,' literally translated is a naturally flat mountain, or in other words, a plateau, and it does not need any stretch of the imagination to identify it with some part of eastern Tibet. Colonel Hannay, writing in 1847, describes tribes residing in the inaccessible regions bordering on Tartary as closely allied to the Kachins." This identifies the Kachins more closely with the Burmans and Chins than with the Karens. Moreover it is said that the Kachin language has more points in common with the Burmese than with the Karen. This is especially true of the Marus,—a tribe to the eastward, allied to the Kachins of Burma. It is not difficult to believe that all these races, in the very remote past, were neighbours in the borders of Tibet, and that while the Kachins and Burmese migrated south direct, the Karens migrating by way of western China,—the meeting of these races on Burmese soil reveals a few of the many things they once had in common.

After the Burmans and Chins had migrated to Burma, the Shans, pressing westward by way of the Namkham valley, blocked the way of further migrations from the north. The Shans are known to have been supreme in northern Burma at the beginning of the Christian era. It is probable that they peopled the Upper Irrawadi several centuries earlier. In the thirteenth century the Shans overran Assam. Not until the middle of the sixteenth century were they finally overcome by the Burmans. Nothing is known of the Kachins in Burma earlier than the sixteenth century. They seem to be comparatively recent arrivals, working their way into Burma after the Shans had been weakened by their struggles with the Burmans. The Singphos of Assam are said to have drifted into that country but a little more than a century ago.

The Kachins have gradually forced the Palaungs and Shans before them, or isolating some of their villages from the main body. Their sudden development of power is remarkable. Political changes consequent on the annexation of Upper Burma checked Kachin aggressions. They are still spreading, but by fairly peaceable means. The Namkham district, supposedly Shan, is found to contain fully as many Kachins as Shans. Slowly but surely the Shans will be pressed southward. Before passing under control of the British the various tribes of Kachins were ever at war among themselves. Captives were sold into slavery. Retaliatory raids were constantly expected. Feuds are still kept up, though they do not have the free hand to execute vengeance enjoyed in former years.

The Kachin, from habit, is watchful and suspicious of strangers,—until his confidence is gained. Their villages are usually high up in the hills, as secluded and inaccessible as possible. But the isolated situation of the village probably is due to the fear of nats, spirits,—quite as much as from fear of human enemies. One writer describes an avenue leading to the village, with bamboo posts at regular intervals, with rattan ropes, à la clothes-line, from which various emblems are suspended. Near the village "wooden knives, axes, spears, and swords are fastened to the tree-trunks. All this display is for the benefit of the nats. Like the Chinese, they do not give their demons credit for much acuteness. For one thing they believe that they can only move in a straight line. Therefore the nats avoid going about in the jungle, and keep to the open paths. A few judicious turns are made in the avenue, so as to turn the prowling devils off, if possible, but if he should happen to be cannoned off the tree stems in the right direction, there are the emblems to show him where the thing he is in search of may be found. If he is hungry there is the bullock's skull nailed to a tree, to indicate where food may be found; if he is thirsty a joint of bamboo points out where a libation of rice spirit has been made." These spirit-worshippers are more easily gained than the Buddhist Burmans and Shans, but they have not the traditions of the Karens to prejudice them in favour of Christianity. Morally, they rank very low,—and yet their morality must be viewed in the light of Kachin, rather than English custom. As with the non-Christian Karens, there are certain unwritten tribal laws governing family life. Should a Kachin presume to poach on his neighbour's preserves, there would be one less Kachin the next day.

Courtship, when once the parties have come to an understanding, is conducted as a "probationary marriage." They may separate before the marriage ceremony takes place, if they weary of each other. But if they have already started a colony, marriage must follow, or the man "has to kill a bullock and pigs—to appease the nats of the damsel's house. In addition he has to pay a fine to the parents, of a spear, a gong, a da, and some pieces of cloth, and sometimes a bullock or buffalo." The old man is more exacting than the nats. Such separations do not effect the social standing of either party. It is claimed that separations or disloyalty after marriage "are practically unknown."

It certainly would not be healthy to have it known. The Kachins have their own distinctive costume, varying according to tribe and locality. But Kachin men in touch with Chinese, Shans, or Burmans, usually adopt the costume of their neighbours. The women hold to their own costume.

The religion of the Kachins, though gross spirit-worship, contains an element of truth not found in the Buddhism of the more civilized Burmans. Rev. Mr. Geis, missionary at Myitkyina says—"Above and beyond all nats to whom Kachins offer sacrifices at one time or another, they recognize the existence of one great spirit called Karai Kasang. Altars in his honour are not found in Kachin villages or houses. No priest has been able to divine what offerings are to be made to it, but in time of great danger nats and their offerings are forgotten, and their cry goes out to Karai Kasang for help and succour."

THE CHINS

The Chins, who number about 180,000, are thought to be of the same origin as the Burmese,—from the neighbourhood of Tibet. It is evident that they became separated from kindred tribes at a very remote period.

The Lushais of Assam, and Bengal, and the Kukis of Manipur have the same race-characteristics, and probably formed part of the original migration southward. At present the Chins, occupying the hill country in the northwest corner of Burma, are slowly pressing northward, affecting Manipur. The Chins of the hill-country are quite isolated from other races. For this reason Buddhism has never reached them. Like their kinsmen, the Kachins, they are spirit-worshippers, as were their other kinsmen, the Burmese, before the introduction of Buddhism. The Chins are divided into several tribes. The northern Chins call themselves "Yo," the Tashons call themselves "KaKa"; the middle tribes give their names as "Lai"; the southern Chins call themselves "Shu." Since the annexation of Upper Burma, securing immunity from oppression by the Burmans many Chins have drifted down from their own hill-country and formed agricultural villages in the plains. The Chin country is about 250 miles long by from 100 to 150 miles wide. It is wholly mountainous, the highest peaks being from 5,000 to 9,000 feet. Liklang peak, the highest of all, is nearly 10,000 feet. Like all spirit-worshippers, the Chins dread the power of demons, and offer to them the same left-handed sort of worship. But their worst enemy is of their own manufacture, made by fermenting rice, millet, or corn, and called "Zu." The great and wide-spread vice among the Chins is drunkenness. Men, women, children, even babes in arms—all drink and glory in intoxication as an accomplishment of which to be proud. No act is considered a crime if committed when drunk. Many people I have seen in European and American cities must have been Chins. No function is complete without liquor. Hospitality is gauged by the number of cups of spirit dealt out, and appreciation of it—by the number of cups consumed. Again, how like many of their white cousins. "A man should drink, fight, and hunt, and the portion for women and slaves is work"—is both creed and practice. They have a peculiar custom, now dying out, of tattooing the faces of the women, until the whole face, from chin to hair—is dyed a purplish black. The reason for this custom is in dispute. Some have asserted that it was to make them unattractive to their enemies, especially the Burmans, who frequently raided their villages in the foot-hills. Others claim that the tattooing was in order to increase their attractiveness to the young men of their own kind. Fortunate indeed were they if this queer custom served the double purpose of repelling enemies and attracting friends. To unaccustomed eyes the tattooed face is hideous in the extreme.

The first attempt by the British to control any part of the Chin Hills was made in 1859, but was neither continuous nor effective. In 1871 an expedition was sent into the hills to recover captives, and punish offenders. The Chins remained quiet for ten years, then broke out again in repeated raids, from 1882 to 1888. The English were obliged to undertake a systematic subjugation of the whole Chin country. This was effected in 1889-90. The expedition met with stubborn resistance, by guerilla methods. Many villages were burned by the English, as the only means of subduing the wily enemy. Many villages were burned by the Chins themselves. Near one village "a dog had been killed and disemboweled, and tied by its four legs and thus stretched on a rope suspended between two sticks across the path to the village, its entrails being likewise suspended between two other sticks, thus barring the road. Asking the Chins what this might mean, they said it was an offering to the war nat to protect their village, and to ward off our bullets from injuring them." The work of subjugation had to be continued for some years, before the Chins were made to realize that the English government must be respected. The Hakas and others were disarmed in 1895. The Chin Hills are administered by a political officer at Falam, with a European assistant at other important points, as Tiddim and Haka. The morals of these benighted Chins, still further degraded by their drink habit, are what might be expected. Marriages are governed by the working-value of the bride, parents expecting compensation for the loss of her services, according to her capacity for work, and "expectation of life." This seems to have been the custom among all races of Burma. It is said that when a Chin wife is asked "Where is your husband?" she will give the required information in case he is living,—but if dead she will reply, "He is not here," and expects the subject to be dropped at that. This reminds me of a Shan girl's answer when I asked her the whereabouts of a former resident—"I don't know,—he is dead." The Chins of the foot-hills and plains present an encouraging field for missionary work, but missionary work must be pushed with all possible vigour—to forestall the influences of Buddhism. To win them from spirit-worship is hard enough, to win them from Buddhism will be very much harder.

The dialect of the southern Chins has been reduced to writing, and is found to be strikingly similar to the Burmese, perhaps half of the words being more or less allied to the Burmese. As the southern Chins have great difficulty in understanding the speech of the wild tribes in the northern hills, it is quite probable that their own dialect has been corrupted by contact with the Burmans since their migration to Burma. The Chin dialect of the south is also said to contain many words of Shan origin. This must have come about in the same way, either by contact with Shans on the Upper Chindwin at a very early period, or when the Shans occupied Arracan about eighteen years, towards the end of the tenth century. This later contact seems much too short to have left a permanent mark on the southern Chin dialect. The total number of Animists—demon-worshippers—in Burma, Chin, Kachin, Karen, and other, is about four hundred thousand. But as we have seen, the Buddhist Burmans, Shans and Talaings, are at core, demon-worshippers, all races having in common practically the same superstitions.

[V]
BUDDHISM AS IT IS

Much has been written on Buddhism, besides the translation of the Buddhist's sacred books. Little, however, can be learned from books of Buddhism as one finds it expressed in the life of the people.

Riding one day with a missionary who had a wide acquaintance with the Burmans and their language, I asked him certain questions as to their real belief. His reply was, "No man can tell, until he finds a way to get into the Burman mind." The first business of the missionary seemed to be then to make every effort to get into the Burman mind; to study him; study his religious habits; ascertain if possible, his point of view; learn to see things from his point of view; to know what there is in him that must be eradicated and supplanted by the gospel of Jesus Christ. We see the country fairly alive;—no, dead with idols. We see the people kneeling before these idols, and, to every appearance praying. Are they praying? How can they be praying, inasmuch as Buddhism knows no God,—does not claim to have a God? Gautama himself whom all these images represent, never claimed to have any power to save others, or even to save himself. These worshippers know that he was only a man, that at the age of eighty years he died, that his death was due to an attack of indigestion (from eating too much fresh pork), as any other man might die. It is supposed that he was born near Benares, about six hundred years before Christ; that his father was a chief of an Aryan tribe called the Sakyas. From the sacred books they learn that Gautama's early life was spent in dissolute pleasure and luxury common to oriental princes; that after a time becoming dissatisfied with his own manner of life and the corrupt conditions around him, he yielded to another his princely prospects, abandoned his wife and child and gave himself up to a life of meditation and study under religious teachers; that failing in this to gain the longed-for peace of soul he for several years led a life of the most severe privation and affliction of the flesh, until by long continued meditation and self-concentration the light broke in upon him, and he became "the enlightened one,"—a Buddha. Did he not by this enlightenment become something more than man? Not at all. He had learned nothing of God, not even that such a being existed. He entertained no thought that he himself had acquired any supernatural character or power. And so he died. Even the common people of the jungle villages know all this, and yet they prostrate themselves before these images of brass, wood, or stone. Are they praying? Perchance their hopes are based on what Gautama became, after death. According to Buddhism, Gautama had now passed through all the necessary conditions and changes, and entered at once upon the final state, the highest goal of Buddhism, Nirvana, ("Neikban," in Burmese).

Had he now become a God? Not at all. No Buddhist entertains such a thought. What then is Neikban? "It means," they say, "the going out, like the flame of a candle." By a long-continued process of self-concentration Gautama is supposed to have become absolutely oblivious to the world around him, and ultimately to have become unconscious even of self. His death is believed to have been utter extinction of both physical and spiritual existence. Some deny that Neikban is equivalent to annihilation. The best that can be claimed for it is an impossible existence in which there is neither sensation nor conscious life.

Fittingly they describe it as "a flame which has been blown out."

According to Buddhist teachings and current belief Gautama has disappeared, body and soul. Brahmins may talk of being absorbed in the "One Supreme Soul," and Theosophists glibly repeat the form of words, but Buddhists claim nothing of the sort. There is no Supreme Soul to absorb them, and no human souls to be absorbed. It is not soul, or life that is perpetuated, but desire merely. Neikban, they declare, is the cessation of everything, a condition of unconsciousness, lifeless ease, they do not like to say annihilation. Then what are these worshippers doing here on their knees before images which represent no existing being? surely not praying, for they have "no hope, without God in the world"; no being higher than themselves to whom prayer could be addressed; no expectation of blessing of any sort from any supernatural source; absolutely nothing in their religious conceptions or experience corresponding to the communion between the Christian and his God.

There is no such thing as real prayer in the whole Buddhist system. What, then, are they doing? Here comes in the system of "merit" on which Buddhism is built. An instinctive sense of guilt and impending penalty is universal. Having no Saviour—man must save himself.

From what? Not from sin, as violation of the laws of a Holy Being, but from their train of evil consequences to himself.

Worshipers

The chief tenets of Buddhism are: (1) Misery is the inevitable consequence of existence. (2) Misery has its source in desire. (3) Misery can be escaped only by the extinction of desire. (4) Desire can be extinguished only by becoming wholly unconscious of the world and of self. (5) He who attains to such unconsciousness attains to Neikban. (6) Evil actions constitute demerit. Good actions constitute merit.

In this deeply grounded belief as to merit and demerit lies the secret of much that we see in the life of the people. Now we know what these people are doing,—they are seeking to accumulate merit by repeating over and over again a certain formula, or portions of their "Law" with their faces towards the,—to them,—sacred pagoda or idol.

But no Buddhist expects to attain to Neikban at the end of this existence. He realizes that it is utterly hopeless for him to think of fulfilling the conditions. But he cherishes the groundless hope that in some future existence under more favourable conditions he may be able to accumulate sufficient merit, though he cannot now. This belief presupposes the doctrine of transmigration, or metempsychosis.

The Buddhist believes that he has passed through countless existences in the past,—whether as man, animal, or insect, or all many times over, he knows not; finally, birth into this world as man. He dies only to be reborn into this or another world,—whether as man, animal, or insect he knows not; then death again, and so through countless ages. Even Gautama himself is said to have passed through five hundred and fifty different phases of existence, including long ages in hell, before he finally entered this world as man, and became a Buddha.

Although Buddhism has no God, and no heaven, it has a very vivid conception of hell, yes,—eight of them, surrounded by over forty thousand lesser hells,—their terrors limited only by the limitations of the imagination. But no man can escape—the doctrine of Karma settles that. A man's own words and deeds pursue him relentlessly, and there is no city of refuge to which he may flee. "Not in the heavens, not in the midst of the sea, not if thou hidest thyself in the clefts of the mountains, will thou find a place where thou mayest escape the force of thy own evil actions." So say their scriptures, and so every Buddhist believes. Hell is the inevitable penalty of many deeds or accidents, such as the killing of the smallest insect under foot. Between the Buddhist and his hopeless hope of Neikban yawns this awful gulf of existences and sufferings.

"Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap," gives the gist of Buddhism. He is now reaping from past existences; he will reap in the next from his deeds in this. In the past each succeeding existence depended upon the last previous existence. In like manner, what the next existence shall be depends wholly upon the deeds of this life.

So the countless series of transmigrations may be, theoretically, in the ascending or descending scale. But when the awful penalties assigned to innumerable and unavoidable violations of the Buddhist law are taken into consideration all hope of future existences in the ascending scale vanishes. The poor fisherman, beginning at the very bottom of the lowest of the four chief hells must spend countless ages in each, before he can hope to be reborn as man.

The man who unwittingly puts his foot on the smallest insect and crushes out its life must atone for the deed by spending a long period in torment. Taking the life of any living thing, even to the killing of poisonous snakes, is held to be the worst of all sins. The priests, to avoid the possibility of destroying insect life, use a brass strainer finely perforated, to cleanse their drinking water, in blissful ignorance of the microbe theory. A native preacher once asked me to get him a microscope so that he might prove to the priests that notwithstanding their precautions they were drinking to themselves perdition.

His motive may have been in part, to convince them as to the futility of their hope, and in part to get even with them for their harsh criticisms of "animal-killing Christians."

A story told by one of our native preachers vividly illustrates this dread of future punishment. "I had been preaching for about two hours to a large company in a jungle-village. During all this time an old woman was sitting on a log near by, counting off her beads, and devoutly murmuring to herself the customary formula, 'Ah-nas-sa, Dok-ka, Ah-nat-ta; Paya, Taya, Thinga,—Radana Thón-ba'—'Transitoriness, Misery, Illusions; Lord, Law, Priest,—the three Jewels.' When I had finished I approached her saying: 'Why do you worship so devoutly?' 'To escape the penalty of hell,' she sadly replied. 'So you fear the future,—what is your notion of hell?' 'Oh, it is a terrible place. They say it is shaped like a great cauldron, and full of burning oil in which people suffer endlessly and are not consumed. And when they try to escape, the evil beings of the place thrust them back with sharp forks and spears. Oh, it is a terrible place!' she repeated, fairly trembling as she described its horrors. 'Yes,' I said. 'You seem to understand it very well. Now what are you doing to escape such an awful fate?' 'Oh, many, many years I have worshipped before the pagodas and idols; every day I count my beads over and over, repeating the formula, as Gautama directed. Do you think that after all I have done I must still go to hell?' 'Yes,' I said. 'If that is all you have done, you surely must.' 'Oh, then, tell me,' she said in great distress, 'what can I do to escape, for I greatly fear the terrors of that place.' Then sitting there on the log, with this poor old woman on the ground before me, I told the blessed gospel story over again, as Jesus Christ did with the woman of Samaria. And then I said: 'You must repent of your sins, and confess them to the eternal God. You must believe and trust the Lord Jesus Christ, who died to save you. If you do this He will forgive your sins, and save you.' Her wrinkled face brightened with hope as she exclaimed, 'If I do as you have said, and believe on Jesus Christ, will He save me?' 'Yes, He surely will, for He has said, "Him that Cometh unto me I will not cast out."' On her face was an almost heavenly light—as she replied: 'Then I do believe, and I want to go with you that you may tell me about Him until I die.' Her friends ridiculed her saying, 'Oho! Grandma wants to go off with the preacher. She is becoming foolish in her old age.' 'Oh, no,' she said. 'But the preacher has told me how I may escape the penalty of hell, and I am so glad.'"

It has often been asserted that Buddhism has a moral code rivaling, if not superior to that of Christianity. We had not been at our mission station a week before we heard the remark, "Buddhism is a beautiful religion,—why do the missionaries try to disturb them in their belief?" That there are noble precepts and commandments all must admit. But he who expects to see their "beauty" reflected in the lives of the people will be doomed to disappointment. Take the commandment already noticed—"Thou shalt not take the life of any living thing."

This commandment admits of no exceptions whatever, under any possible circumstances, not even in self-defense; and puts the taking of a human life and that of the smallest insect in the same category. But the Burmans, among whom Buddhism is found in its purest form, have been a more or less warlike race from their earliest history, often practicing the greatest cruelties. How do they reconcile this with the teachings of their law? We will suppose that one man has taken the life of another. According to his own belief and the law of the land, he is a murderer. To free himself from just and inevitable penalty he resorts to his doctrine of "merit," by which he may absolve himself from the demerit of his evil act. The building of a small pagoda of sun-dried brick, or the forming of an idol from a portion of his fire-wood log will balance the scales, square the account, restore him to his former prospects, and to future prospects as bright as though he had kept the whole law. By this convenient belief he may take his absolution into his own hands, and work it out to suit himself. But if he be a poor man, unable to perform an adequate work of merit, he must suffer to the full the consequences of his act.

A missionary found a man digging for huge beetles. When one was found it was impaled on a sharp stick along with the others, all to go into the curry for the morning meal. Then the following conversation took place: "Are you not afraid of punishment in hell for killing these creatures?" "I shall go there if I do not kill them." "Then you do this because there is no hope for you, whether you take animal life or not?" "It is all the same." Sins beyond his power to counterbalance by merit had already been committed, until hope had given way to despair.

One may shoot pigeons in the vicinity of a Buddhist monastery, and then divide with the priest, who anticipates a savoury meal without any compunctions of conscience on account of "aiding and abetting."

Young Burmans are eager to follow the man with the gun, showing him the likeliest place to find game, and when the animal is wounded, will rush in and dispatch it with their dahs.

The fisheries of Burma furnish a livelihood to hundreds of Burmans. Large sums are paid to government annually for the privilege of controlling certain specified sections of rivers or streams. The fisherman makes the taking of animal-life his business and daily occupation.

Theoretically he is ranked among the very lowest classes. In real life we find him enjoying the same social position that others of equal wealth enjoy. But I do not hesitate to say that this general belief that fearful penalties must be endured in future existences for taking animal-life in this, has a deeper hold on the Buddhist than any other commandment.

Take the commandment: "Thou shalt speak no false word,"—strikingly like the Christian's commandment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness," "Lie not one to another." One would naturally expect to find among the devotees of a system containing such a commandment some value placed upon one's word of honour. But if truthfulness has ever been discovered among non-Christian Burmans, the discovery has never been reported. But we have not far to search to find the secret of this general lack of any regard for truthfulness.

The same "Sacred Book" that sets forth the commandment, "Thou thalt speak no false word," gives this definition of falsehood: A statement constitutes a lie when discovered by the person to whom it is told, to be untrue! See what latitude such a definition gives. Deceit is at a premium. Children grow up with no higher standard of honour than a belief that the sin of falsehood and fraud lies entirely in its discovery. Is it any wonder that these people have become expert in the art. It is the common practice among themselves,—in business, in family life, in match-making, and most of all, in their dealings with foreigners. No European (after the first year) places the slightest reliance upon the most emphatic promise of a heathen Burman. In fact, the more emphatic the promise, the greater seems to be the temptation to do just the other thing. It may have been this inbred trait that led the schoolboy to translate "Judge not, that ye be not judged," by "Do no justice, lest justice be done to you."

When it is remembered that deceit and fraud are national vices, bred in the bone for centuries, it is not to be marvelled at that native Christians, only a step from heathenism, are sometimes found deficient in their sense of honour. Here is an illustration in point. A young Burman wanted to become a Christian. He became a regular attendant at chapel services, and finally asked for baptism. This greatly enraged his heathen wife, who proceeded to make his life most miserable. She tore around, screamed, pulled her own hair, and made things interesting generally. She got possession of his box containing his best clothing and other valuables, and would neither give it back to him nor live any longer with him unless he would promise to break with the Christians, and cease attending their worship. The young man appealed to his uncle. The uncle's advice was: "You go and tell your wife that you will have nothing more to do with the Christians. You cannot recover your property in any other way. When you have regained possession of your box, come back to us, and then we will baptize you." So far as he then knew, the end justified the means. Take the commandment: "Thou shalt commit no immoral act,"—an ideal precept in itself, but standing for little more than a joke when inscribed on the banner of any non-Christian people. The Burman is perhaps superior, morally, to some other races of this country, yet his moral sense is very low. Among middle-aged people marriage seems to be an actual institution, and family life well guarded. Separations are comparatively few. Conditions of life in the tropics are such that the young are subject to temptations sad to contemplate. Heathen parents freely discuss subjects in the presence of their children that never would be mentioned before them in a Christian home. Missionaries' children often startle their parents by repeating what never should have come to their ears. It seems a wonder that moral character exists at all among the young. That many do set a high value upon virtue no unprejudiced observer of native life can doubt. Jealousy plays a large part in early separations, and with sufficient cause. Both may find other partners of their joys on the day following.

Among all races there are certain laws and social customs that in large measure restrain evil practices. Even among the heathen a certain value is placed upon one's social standing in the community,—which has greater weight than the commandment against immorality, in his "law." An educated Burman once said to me—"Burmans do not take much account of sin, but they do not like to lose their respectability."

Other commandments, such as those directed against "love of the world," and "love of money," seem to be honoured more in the breach than in the observance. The Burmans are notoriously the proudest, gayest people on the face of the earth. They enjoy a good time and will have it, whatever the occasion. There is little of real religious significance in their so-called religious gatherings. A display of fine clothes, a few presents for the priests; some of the more devout, especially the elderly women, worshipping before the shrine. But a large majority will be found sitting in the "zayats" talking familiarly among themselves, painting the ground below red with kun-juice by spitting through cracks in the floor, and never going near the pagodas or idols at all. The Buddhists are proud of their "law," and lay great stress upon it for purposes of argument. But as we have seen, either from their low moral sense, or their dependence on works of merit, the "law" has little effect on the lives of the people.

We visited that most famous worship-place of the Buddhists, the Shwe Dagon pagoda, and for the first time saw heathenism as it is. We had read "The Light of Asia"; and heard theosophists talk glibly of "Mahatmas" whose wisdom is more ancient and profound than anything in the religious literature of the West.

But here we saw the yellow-robed, "Light of Asia" (more fittingly called the "Blight of Asia") and the graven image, both representing their annihilated Buddha, seemingly equal in intelligence, and sharing together the superstitious worship of the common people. Up the long ascent to the pagoda is a covered way, its brick or flagged steps hollowed out by the tramp, tramp of thousands on thousands of barefooted worshippers, extending over many, many years.