Kitabı oku: «A Civil Servant in Burma», sayfa 10
Two of Kun Saing’s sons were partly educated in England. The elder, Saw Hkè, succeeded his father, and is now the polished, courtly Chief of Thibaw. The story of Saw Lu, the younger son, is pathetic and instructive. When still a boy he was sent to England, and was for a time at Rugby. He was a studious and ambitious youth, whose desire was to be, not a King, but a doctor. Most unwisely, merely to see how he was getting on, his father recalled him, and he was turned loose in Thibaw at the age of about sixteen. The temptations besetting the Chief’s young son in his father’s capital were too strong for him, and he fell from grace. The cup of his iniquity brimmed over when he eloped with a young girl who had been selected as the Sawbwa’s Abishag. The fugitives were brought back, and the boy was cast into prison. “Is this your British justice?” he indignantly asked the political officer who came to condole with him. Presently he was released, and came to see me in Rangoon. “I don’t know what to do,” he said; “I have apologized to the governor, but he won’t forgive me.” He was an exceedingly good-looking, nice-mannered youth, like a pleasant English public-school boy. He was not allowed to return to England. Over his subsequent history it is kinder to draw a veil. The moral of this story is that if a Burman or Shan, especially a Chief’s son, is to come to England, he should be sent while still young, and should be kept at a good public school and at the University until his character has been formed. He should on no account be brought back midway in the course of his education.
Even more deeply learned in Shan than in Burmese, Pilcher would have been the first civil officer in the Shan States. After his death, I was designated by Sir Charles Bernard for that post. When the time came, another officer was selected. Speaking seriously and without reserve, I have no doubt that this was for the advantage of the Shan country. No one could have been more conspicuously successful than Mr. Hildebrand170 and Mr. Scott;171 no one is likely to have done nearly so well. In view of the original intention, in the cold weather of 1886 I was given a holiday from office-work, and sent as civil officer with a column under Colonel E. Stedman172 to Thônzè. Through this State ran the trade route to the Northern Shan States, Thibaw, Theinni, and Taungbaing. Along this road came caravans of bullocks laden with letpet.173 Owing to dissensions in Thônzè, the trade was stopped. The object of our expedition, the first sent into the Shan country, was to obtain information and to open the road for traders. Early in November, when the season should have been settled, on a fine Sunday afternoon, I rode out to join the rearguard at Tônbo. Next morning we were to catch up the main column at Zibingale. From Tônbo to Zibingale we climbed the hill in a torrent of rain, letting our ponies loose to scramble up the steep and rocky ascent, while the Gurkhas chaffed one another and laughed at the weather. At Zibingale we stayed under canvas in the rain for three days and three nights, quite comfortable in our tents, but rather aggrieved at having to wade knee-deep in mud to mess.
The Madrasi garrison of the post was prostrate with fever almost to a man; of our own small force about a quarter fell sick. By judicious doses of quinine, I saved my servants and myself, so that we all came through unscathed. After three days the rain ceased and we began our march in cool November sunshine. On that delightful plateau, some three thousand feet above the sea, the winter climate is perfect. We rode through forest paths and fairy glades, wild roses clustering in the hedges. At Pyintha and Singaing, we first saw the bazaar, held every five days, a custom peculiar to the Shan States and Further East. Buyers and sellers came from all the countryside, often from distant places. It is much like market-day in a country town in England. The market at Singaing and at Pyinulwin was of some interest, and attracted strange folk from the hills. It was not to be compared with the great bazaars held at Kēngtūng, Namkham, or even Mogôk, thronged with many varieties of races in rich diversities of attire. To us, the people most novel and attractive were the Shans, men swaggering in baggy trousers and large flapping straw hats brigand-like, but formidable only in appearance; girls with russet-rosy cheeks, shy and gentle. Pyin-u-lwin, a charmingly situated village of some five-and-twenty houses, with a market-place and a gambling ring, won our hearts. Though we did not actually discover Pyin-u-lwin, we were among its earliest visitors. We were received with all kindness and hospitality. Several of us were housed in the village monastery, where we were heartily welcomed by the monk. He was still there when I left Burma twenty-four years later. With Captain E. W. Dun, our Intelligence Officer, I inspected a curious magnetic rock in the neighbouring jungle. Some years afterwards it was described as a new discovery by a geologist of note. It has been lost again, but will doubtless be found some day. Soon after our return, on Colonel Stedman’s recommendation, a military post was established at Pyin-u-lwin, and called May-my̆o, after Colonel May, of the Bengal army, a Mutiny veteran, the first Commandant. May-my̆o is now the summer residence of the Burma Government and the headquarters of the Burma division, a flourishing hill-station with a population of about 12,000. Without pretension to the picturesque, it is a place of great charm and quiet beauty, with no palm-trees and few pagodas, conspicuously un-Oriental, more like a corner of Surrey than of Burma.174
From Pyin-u-lwin we marched to Thônzè, through a desolate country, overgrown with elephant-grass, but with many signs of past prosperity. At the ruined town of Thônzè, now no more than a straggling village, we halted and tried to open communication with Hein Sè,175 a bandit who claimed to be Chief of the State. I promised him a safe-conduct and liberty to depart if we could not come to terms, and to encourage him, I offered to let him keep my messenger as a hostage for his safety. This offer was made with the knowledge and consent of the messenger, a little Shan chiefling known as the Tabet Myosa. Him we had found, practically destitute, in Mandalay, where he had been detained by the King. As a matter of grace, he was given an allowance of Rs. 10176 a month. He accompanied me on this tour, and pluckily undertook to carry my letter to Hein Sè. As he was leaving, he turned at the tent-door, and said: “But you will let him come back, won’t you?” Accepting my assurance, he went off. I know that he discharged his mission, as I received a reply. But his courage was not put to the extreme test. Hein Sè behaved like a gentleman, treated the envoy kindly, and sent him back in safety. He himself declined my invitation. The future history of Tabet may be told here. A few months later, when Mr. Hildebrand and Mr. Scott went to the Shan States, I sent the Myosa with them. He made himself useful, and showed nerve and ability. When, owing to the persistent recalcitrance of its ruler, who fled across the Salween and stayed there, the large State of Yatsauk was in need of a chief, Tabet was chosen. He ruled Yatsauk with loyalty and intelligence, and handed down the succession to his son. His fortune, probably his merit, was better than that of another Shan chiefling of similar status, the Maingkaing Myosa, who also received from Government 13s. 4d. a month, and received no more.
The rest of this tour was without incident. We explained to the people of Thônzè the beneficent intentions of Government, and gave a practical example of the good manners of a British military force. The Gurkhas of the column, then as ever, were specially popular with the people to whom doubtless they are akin.
In February, 1887, Mandalay was not behind the rest of India in celebrating the Jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The ceremonies were designedly arranged so as to give the people an opportunity of demonstrating their loyalty and devotion to the Crown by revels which they themselves appreciated. For a week pwès177 and other Burmese festivities went on day and night. On the first day came all the members of the royal family, all the high officials, and a crowd of others, in their gayest and richest attire. In the principal ballet appeared, probably for the last time, the famous singer and dancer, Yindaw Ma Le, the favourite of Princes, undisputed prima donna of the Burmese operatic stage, who ten years before had been sent to Rangoon by Mindôn Min to dance at the Proclamation rejoicings. Twenty years later her successor, Ma Twe Le, also a lady of supreme grace and serpentine charm,178 had the honour of dancing before Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales.
One of the relaxations of those early days was to see the working of the Elephant Kheddah at Amarapura. The Kheddah establishment, inherited from the King and maintained for some time, consisted of a number of tame elephants, thoroughly well trained, with Burmese riders and hunters. The tame elephants, some with riders, some guided only by their own sagacity, plunged into a jungle teeming with herds of their wild brethren. By artful strategy a wild elephant would be detached from his fellows, lured into the midst of the tame herd, and gradually drawn to the Kheddah enclosure. This was a quadrangle, entered only by a funnel-shaped passage, surrounded by a strong outer wall of brick and by an inner stockade of stout teak posts set at intervals, with a space between the stockade and the wall. By his clever, perfidious friends, the captive was cunningly edged and hustled towards the passage till finally he was thrust into its mouth. Then the gate was securely fastened and the quarry was alone at the mercy of his captors. The hunters teased him with blunt spears and sticks, not doing him any real harm, but annoying him exceedingly, escaping his charge by darting between the posts of the palisade, set wide enough apart to admit a man but not an elephant. This was a sport of some danger, requiring nerve and agility. When the poor beast was thoroughly tired, he was noosed and tied up in the Kheddah, and the process of training began. Spectators sat in crowds on the wall to watch this pastime. I do not think it occurred to any of us that it was somewhat cruel.
In March, 1887, Sir Charles Bernard left Burma. He was entertained by the Headquarters Mess at a farewell dinner, where Sir George White179 proposed his health in moving and eloquent terms, quoting most appropriately the famous lines:
“Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the State.
Not once or twice in our rough island story,
The path of duty was the way to glory:
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden-roses.”
We escorted our guest to the steamer, and there bade farewell to our Chief and our friend.
CHAPTER XI
A FEW WORDS ON BUDDHISM
Buddhist monks are the most influential and most respected class of the community. In passing it may be mentioned that there is no such person as a Buddhist priest. No one exercises any sacerdotal function or celebrates any Sacrament. The religious are not priests, but monks, a numerous and well-organized body, wielding indefinite but real authority. In every village at least one monk is found. In Mandalay, the typical Burmese city, they were numbered by thousands. Professed monks are bound by vows of chastity and poverty, and are subject to strict discipline. Wearing the yellow robe, the distinctive mark of their order, as morning comes round monks and novices from every monastery walk slowly through the streets, each bearing a bowl for the receipt of the offerings of the faithful. We must not call this vessel a “begging-bowl.” One of the many acts from which a monk is bound to abstain is asking for anything. Voluntary gifts are freely offered, and are received as a matter of course. The lives of monks are devoted to meditation, the practice of austerities, the study and exposition of the law, the instruction of youth. Every Burmese boy enters a monastery, stays for a longer or shorter period, and receives there the elements of secular learning. Also, much to his profit, he is instructed in religious and moral duties. Thus it happens that in Burma elementary education is widely spread. The proportion of literate persons is greater than in any country where education is not compulsory. It is rare to find a man who cannot at least read and write. Sometimes men profess to have forgotten these arts, but as a rule this is mere laziness. The influence of monks having remained undisturbed by foreign contact, five-and-twenty years ago sound education in the vernacular was more common in Upper Burma than in the rest of the Province. In my own Court in Mandalay, in comparatively early days, a Lower Burman clerk was stumbling over the reading of a document. A bystander, apparently a plain man, offered his services. Borrowing a pair of spectacles from his neighbour, he read the crabbed text with fluency and accuracy. The incident does not prove, but it illustrates, my argument.
Apart from the instruction of youth and the exposition of the law, monks are not supposed to take an interest in mundane affairs. Their aloofness has been exaggerated. In a country village, for example, the monk was obviously the most learned and disinterested, very likely the most intelligent, person. Inevitably he was sought as the arbitrator of disputes. That monks often acted in that capacity, I have found abundant evidence in old documents produced before me in court. Some of these went back a hundred years, when the country was quite free from foreign influence, and cannot be regarded as indicating degeneracy of the monastic order. Again, it has been said that the authority of monks depended solely on their personal qualities and religious character, that it had no secular sanction. As regards Upper Burma in the King’s time, nothing can be farther from the truth. Buddhist ecclesiastics relied on the arm of flesh. The King and his officers promptly and effectually enforced the commands of the hierarchy. Laymen were severely punished for ecclesiastical offences, and recalcitrant monks were imprisoned within the precincts of a pagoda, or compelled to do acts of penance. In early days in Mandalay one Deputy Commissioner essayed to maintain the ancient rule, and to give effect to monastic sentences. Unfortunately this good practice could not last. Now the hierarchy complain that, as Government will not enforce discipline, authority is waning, with disastrous results. The most that the Courts have found possible is to give effect to decisions of duly constituted religious tribunals in disputes of a civil nature between members of the order. Another instance of the interference of monks in worldly affairs, their almost invariable complicity in political intrigues, has been already mentioned. The Kinwun Mingyi himself emerged from a monastery to take part in the rebellion which placed Mindôn Min on the throne.
On the whole, in Upper Burma as we found it, the monks constituted a respectable body, including many learned and devout persons. I do not pretend that all were immaculate. Doubtless there were idle and dissolute monks. One hears from Burmans themselves of some who were monks by day and who at night threw off the yellow robe and ranged the town. Some of them dabbled in magic and alchemy. A really pious monk could hardly become a dacoit chief. But the great majority honestly lived up to their profession. The fact that the vows were not irrevocable tended to prevent the occurrence of scandals sometimes incident to monastic life. Complete liberty of renunciation lessened temptation to break the vows. It was always open to a monk to return to the world and, as it was phrased, again to become a man. Even if a shadow of discredit attached to a monk who had come out (twet), it was faint and transitory. In a land where life is simple and much concealment impossible, no body of men who lived unworthily could retain the respect of all classes. Every layman, from the King downwards, treated monks as superior beings. I have seen the Kinwun Mingyi lean out of his carriage and pay the graceful Burmese reverence180 to a humble passing monk.
In Upper Burma the fine flower of Buddhism flourished. The monastic system was elaborately organized. At the head was the Thathanabaing; under him were Gaing-ôks, Gaingdauks, and Taik-ôks,181 in due succession and subordination. The Thathanabaing was not, as some suppose, elected; he was appointed by the King. In former days his authority prevailed throughout Burma. As by degrees fragments of the country became British territory, the Thathanabaing’s jurisdiction naturally shrank, being restricted to the King’s dominions. Even if for no other reason, it was impossible for British officers to recognize in Lower Burma the authority of a monk who lived in Ava or Mandalay, and owed his power and appointment to a foreign monarch. Consequently the bonds of discipline were relaxed. Monks and laity in Lower Burma were as sheep without a shepherd. Heresies and schisms rent the Buddhist Church. The influence of monks waned perceptibly. Buddhism was and is still a living creed in Lower Burma. But it cannot be pretended that it is so vital and beneficent a force as even now in the Upper districts. Similarly, as already indicated, monastic education declined. The absence of ecclesiastical control has caused some deterioration of character in Lower Burma.
The policy of the Government of India has always been to observe strict neutrality in religious matters, to interest itself in no form of creed. All education directed by Government has been rigidly secular. It is now felt by many that this policy, however well-intentioned, was mistaken, that in allowing, or even encouraging education to be exclusively secular, Government has done much to sap the foundations of morality and loyalty, to undermine the basis of character. Probably the right course would have been not to stand aloof from the divers creeds of the Empire, but to take an active interest in all, and to see that each had fair play and encouragement. For a Christian Government to do this would have been difficult; most likely the attempt would not have been tolerated by public opinion at home. So far as India is concerned, the tiresome thing about public opinion in England is that, where interest might be beneficial, it cannot be roused; while in some vital matter in which only the man on the spot has materials for judging, the British public, or its spokesmen, insist on interfering. (How pleasant would it be, for instance, to see on newspaper posters such legends as—
ANOTHER WRONG TO BURMA
BURMA’S SAD FINANCIAL STATE
How unlikely we are to see them!) Perhaps of the two mistakes lack of interest is the less mischievous. Recently we have made a step in advance. Religious teaching in State schools has been permitted; all pupils may receive instruction in the creeds which they profess.
Sir Charles Bernard recognized the value of monastic influence, and did his best to enlist it on the side of law and order. It was particularly desirable that monks should be discouraged from taking part in political agitation. It was also hoped that the monastic system of education might be maintained and strengthened in sympathy with our own Education Department. At the time of the annexation the Thathanabaing was a weak but well-meaning person who had been King Thebaw’s tutor. The Chief Commissioner interviewed him in person and essayed to excite his enthusiasm for the new Government. In recognition of the part taken by monks in secular education, monthly gifts of rice were sent to the Thathanabaing and his trusted counsellors, the Pă-kán and Hladwe Sadaws. The Thathanabaing was induced to visit Rangoon with a view to the extension of his authority over Lower Burma. Government provided for his journey, which was made in some state with a long train of monks. He was received with rapture at Prome and in Rangoon; and a rest-house (zayat) for him and his successors was built on the slope of the Shwe Dagôn Pagoda. The effort was ineffectual. Neither that Thathanabaing nor his successors have exercised any power in Lower Burma, which still remains in a state of reprobation. Another attempt was made to conciliate Buddhist sympathy. Many monasteries and other religious buildings had been used by troops and others for Government purposes, and some damage had been done. All over the country monks had hospitably received and entertained our officers, and had raised no objection to the necessary temporary use of sacred buildings. As a compensation for disturbance and damage, a substantial sum of money was disbursed to a large number of monks. As monks may not touch gold or silver, the actual coins were placed in the hands of lay followers. These well-meant efforts had, I fear, no appreciable effect. The Thathanabaing had not the authority, even if he had the will, to control and direct his monks by moral force alone. Monks were civil to British officers, often glad to have the protection of a military post; but they did not go out of their way to preach submission to an heretical Government. It is hardly to be expected that they would do so.
After this Thathanabaing had condescended to return, as runs the Burmese euphemism for the death of a monk, it was some years before Government made up its mind as to the appointment of a successor. No one could lawfully be Thathanabaing unless appointed by the ruling power. But it was contrary to established principle for Government to appoint a Buddhist ecclesiastic. For some years the monastic world was given up to anarchy. At last it was decided that, though Government could not appoint, it might recognize; and though it could not give material aid, it might lend moral support. To ascertain the monk who would be generally acceptable, an election was held. This device has now been adopted on two or three occasions, so that people have begun to believe that it was always customary. The last two holders of the office have been formally recognized by the Government of Burma; the present Thathanabaing received a sanad182 from the Lieutenant-Governor. He is a monk of learning, and particular suavity of manner and disposition. While maintaining due reserve and dignity, he has always been on excellent terms with Government and its officers. He has loyally exercised his influence on the side of law and order, and has tried to smooth the path of the Education Department, anxious to link the monastic with the Government system. Without posing as liberal or progressive, he has been wise and conciliatory. In later years my personal relations with the Thathanabaing were extremely cordial. Once he honoured me by his presence at a garden-party in Mandalay. This was, I think, an unprecedented occasion. On the lovely lawn fringing the moat he sat, surrounded by yellow-robed counsellors, the centre of a picturesque circle, watched with reverence by Burmese, with respectful interest by European and Indian, guests. Among my most treasured possessions is a rosary which he sent me, with a charming farewell letter, when I left the Province.
The order of Buddhist nuns must not be forgotten. They are comparatively few in number, and, though regarded with respect, do not seem to exercise special influence. Living sometimes in seclusion, sometimes in communities, they occupy no prominent place. Their lives are spent in meditation and devotion, free from secular cares. Often when stricken by a great sorrow a woman becomes a nun, and adheres to her profession for the rest of her life. Innocent, harmless ladies, if they are not active in good works their passive piety is a gracious example. A nun whom you meet in the road has a pleasing habit of invoking a blessing as you pass.
Buddhism as professed by the Burmese is of a high and pure type. In Burma, and in Burma alone throughout India,183 Buddhism is a vital force. The suggestion that religion is in danger, or that monks have been ill-used, is the surest way to rouse popular feeling. The ethics of Buddhism are as lofty and inspiring as those of any faith in the world. Obviously Burmans do not invariably shape their lives in strict accordance with the precepts of the law. But in spite of failings and shortcomings, the spiritual and moral force of their religion sheds a penetrating influence on national life and character. Though its every rule may be daily violated, Buddhism does tend to make Burmans humane, tolerant, kind-hearted, charitable. All Burmans are well-grounded in the mysteries of their faith. When they sin, they sin against light and conscience. In all but the most abandoned, traces of the good influence of their religion are evident. One very pleasing effect is extension of benevolence in theory always, in practice often, to every sentient being. Consider, for instance, the kindly attitude of Burmans to lower animals. From the plump bullocks which draw the primitive, creaking184 carts of the country to the pariah dogs which swarm in every village, or the pigs which used to scavenge the streets of Mandalay (whose chase, not by the Burmese, was the only form of pig-sticking known in Burma), all are objects of compassion and care. The Burman’s robust bullocks, nourished on their mothers’ milk, contrast pleasingly with the lean kine of the Indian. You will even see a pious Burman save a deadly snake from destruction, and set it loose in a place of security. This, perhaps, is an extreme instance of logical regard for principle.
Signs of the extent to which religion forms part of everyday life strike the most casual observer. The country is full of pagodas, monasteries, theins,185 images of the Buddha, zayats. Pagodas vary in size from the stately Shwe Dagôn to the humble fane on the outskirts of a village. It may be worth while to explain that a pagoda is not a temple in which worshippers pay their devotions. It is a solid structure, often built over sacred relics, of varying type, the most prevalent being that of the great pagoda at Rangoon. Some pagodas are richly gilded, others merely whitewashed. Each is crowned with a ti, if possible studded with jewels. The very topmost pinnacle is often an inverted soda-water bottle, a primitive shield against lightning. Monks must have monasteries. These also differ in glory, from the great buildings, richly ornamented with carving covered with gold, founded by the King or Queen or some high official, which adorn the royal city, to the mat and thatched hut which shelters the poor village monk. A Burman who amasses wealth, the farmer who has an abundant harvest and good prices, the merchant whose venture has been successful, the rich broker or money-lender, does not hoard his gains. He spends them on jewels for his wife and daughters, on silks for these ladies and himself, on building a monastery, or a pagoda, a zayat, incidentally on a pwè186 or an ahlu.187 The builder of a pagoda is a Paya-taga, of a monastery a Kyaung-taga, honorific titles in familiar use, as common as the title of Colonel is said to be in the United States. Laymen are associated in religious observances. A monastery has a lay attendant, a Kappiya-taga, who makes it his business to see that the building is maintained and duly swept and garnished. Every eighth day is set apart by the pious for religious observances, for meditation, for visiting a pagoda, for attendance at a monastery to hear the Law expounded. Each year there is a long Lenten period (Wa), when abstinence and religious practices are enjoined on the faithful, when good Buddhists refrain from marrying, when monks remain secluded in their monasteries, undertaking no journeys. A monk reckons his monastic life by the number of Lents he has observed. All this sounds rather gloomy, and in theory Buddhism ought to have a depressing effect. It teaches the transitoriness and mutability of this world and of all human things. No personal God smiles on his worshippers or listens to their prayers. This life is an evil in itself, a period to be spent in the acquisition of merit, in preparation for the ascent to a higher plane. The goal of every man’s striving is the blessed rest of Nirvana (Neikban), a state, not of annihilation, but of rest for many ages from passion and all transitory disturbance. For even the rest of Nirvana is not eternal. After many æons, it may be, the unceasing round begins again. The practical effect of this austere creed is quite different. Nowhere is there a more gay and light-hearted people. To balance the days and months of abstinence, religious festivals are of frequent occurrence. Then the roads are crowded with cart-loads of merry holiday-makers. Pagoda platforms are filled with bright-clad, laughing throngs. Pwès and all national sports are celebrated. On every side are gaiety and good-humour, the basis of religion underlying all. It is not for me to attempt to explain these apparent inconsistencies.
The people in general soon made up their minds that there was no intention of interfering with their religion. And, in spite of isolated instances, the monks accepted the new order with resignation, if not with enthusiasm. The tolerant spirit of Buddhism pervades all classes. Strangers wander unmolested and without meeting scowling looks in the precincts of pagodas and holy places; they are welcome to explore the recesses of monasteries, observing only common politeness and decorum. You are not expected to take off your shoes on reaching the sacred limits of a pagoda or monastery. Ordinary courtesy doubtless impels you to remove your hat in a sacred building. It is not really correct to walk across the sleeping mat of a Sadaw,188 as I saw done by a lady who should have known better. The Sadaw only laughed, recognizing that no offence was meant.
