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THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
The Soul of a People
BY
H. FIELDING
For to see things in their beauty is to see them in their truth '
Matthew Arnold
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
3pttblislt£rs in ©rbinnrij to ^)er Jtnjcstj) the Queen
1898
[Ali rights reserved]
SEEH BY
DAT!
m t " ^'^-
LIBRARY
73157<
UNIVERSITV OF TORONTO
PREFACE
In most of the quotations from Burmese books con-
taining the life of the Buddha I am indebted, if not
for the exact words, yet for the sense, to Bishop
Bigandet's translation.
I do not think I am indebted to anyone else. I
have, indeed, purposely avoided quoting from any
other book and using material collected by anyone
else.
The story of Ma Pa Da has appeared often
before, but my version is taken entirely from the
Burmese song. It is, as I have said, known to
nearly every Burman.
I wanted to write only what the Burmese them-
selves thought ; whether I have succeeded or not,
the reader can judge.
I am indebted to Messrs. William Blackwood and
Sons for permission to use parts of my article on
' Burmese Women ' — Blackwood's Magazine, May,
1895 — i" the present work.
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2010 with funding from
University of Toronto
http://www.archive.org/details/soulofpeoplOOfiel
CONTENTS
CHAI'TER PAGE
I. LIVING BELIEFS - - - - - I
II. HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 1. - - - l8
III. HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT II. - - "35
IV. THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE - - - 47
V. WAR— I. - - - - - - 58
VI. WAR— II. - - - - - - 80
VII. GOVERNMENT - - - - - 90
VIII. CRIME AND PUNISHMENT - - - - I06
IX. HAPPINESS - - - - - - 120
X. THE MONKHOOD 1. . . - - 131
XI. THE MONKHOOD II. ... - 158
XII. PRAYER ------ 163
XIII. FESTIVALS ------ 172
XIV. WOMEN — I. - - - - - igi
XV. WOMEN II. - - - - - 211
XVI. WOMEN— III. ----- 231
XVII. DIVORCE ------ 235
XVIIl. DRINK - - - - - - 249
Vlll
PAGE
CHAPTER
CONTENTS
256
XIX. MANNERS - " '
. - - 264
XX. ' NOBLESSE OBLIGE " " ^
- 286
XXI. ALL LIFE IS ONE -
XXII. DEATH, THE DELIVERER - " ' " 3^3
XXIII. THE potter's WHEEL - " ' "333
XXIV. THE FOREST OF TIME - " ' ' 354
- ^60
XXV. CONCLUSION - ' -^
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
CHAPTER I.
LIVINCx BELIEFS.
' The observance of the law alone entitles to the right of belong-
ing to my religion.' — Saying of the Buddha.
For the first few years of my stay in Burma my life
was so full of excitement that I had little care or
time for any thought but of to-day. There was,
first of all, my few months in Upper Burma in the
King's time before the war, months which were full
of danger and the exhilaration of danger, when all the
surroundings were too new and too curious to leave
leisure for examination beneath the surface. Then
came the flight from Upper Burma at the time of
the war, and then the war itself. And this war
lasted four years. Not four years of fighting in
Burma proper, for most of the Irrawaddy valley was
peaceful enough by the end of 1889; but as the
central parts quieted down, I was sent to the frontier,
I
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
first on the North and then on the East by the Chin
mountains; so that it was not until 1890 that a
transfer to a more settled part gave me quiet and
opportunity for consideration of all I had seen and
known. For it was in those years that I gained
most of whatever little knowledge I have of the
Burmese people.
Months, very many months, I passed with no one
to speak to, with no other companions but Burmese.
I have been with them in joy and in sorrow, I have
fought with them and against them, and sat round
the camp-fire after the day's work and talked of it
all. I have had many friends amongst them, friends
I shall always honour ; and I have seen them killed
sometimes in our fights, or dead of fever in the
marshes of the frontier. I have known them, from
the labourer to the Prime Minister, from the little
neophyte just accepted into the faith to the head of
all the Burmese religion. And I have known their
wives and daughters, and have watched many a
flirtation in the warm scented evenings ; and have
seen orirls become wives and wives mothers while I
have lived amongst them. So that although when
the country settled down, and we built houses for
■ourselves and returned more to English modes of
living, and I felt that I was drifting away from them
into the conventionality and ignorance of our official
lives, yet I had in my memory much of what I had
seen, much of what I had done, that I shall never
LIVING BELIEFS
forget. I felt that I had been — even if it were only
for a time — behind the veil, where it is so hard to
come.
And in looking over these memories it seemed to
me that there were many things I did not under-
stand, acts of theirs and customs, which I had seen
and noted, but of which I did not know the reason.
We all know how hard it is to see into the heart
even of our own people, those of our llesh and blood
who are with us always, and whose ways are our
ways, and whose thoughts are akin to ours. And if
this be so with them, It is ten thousand times harder
with those whose ways are not our ways, and from
whose thoughts we must be far apart. It is true
that there are no dark places in the lives of the
Burmese as there are in the lives of other Orientals.
All is open to the light of day in their homes and in
their religion, and their women are the freest in the
world. Yet the barriers of a strange tongue and a
strange religion, and of ways caused by another
climate than ours, is so great that, even to those of
us who have every wish and every opportunity to
understand, it seems sometimes as if we should never
know their hearts. It seems as if we should never
learn more of them than just the outside — that
curiously varied outside which Is so deceptive, and
■which Is so apt to prevent our understanding that
they are men just as we are and not strange creations
from some far-away planet.
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
So when I settled down and sought to know more
of the meaning of what I had seen, I thought that
first of all I must learn somewhat of their religion,
of that mainspring of many actions, which seemed
sometimes admirable, sometimes the reverse, and
nearly always foreign to my ideas. It is true that I
knew they were Buddhists, that I recognized the
yellow-robed monks as followers of the word of
Gaudama the Buddha, and that I had a general
acquaintance with the theory of their faith as picked
up from a book or two — notably, Rhys Davids'
' Buddhism ' and Bishop Bigandet's book — and from
many inconsequent talks with the monks and others.
But the knowledge was but superficial, and I was
painfully aware that it did not explain much that I
had seen and that I saw every day.
So I sent for more books, such books as had been
published in English, and I studied them, and hoped
thereby to attain the explanations I wanted ; and as
I studied, I watched as I could the doings of the
people, that I might see the effects of causes and
the results of beliefs. I read in these sacred books
of the mystery of Dharma, of how a man has no
soul, no consciousness after death ; that to the
Buddhist ' dead men rise up never,' and that those
who go down to the grave are known no more. I
read that all that survives is the effect of a man's
actions, the evil effect, for good is merely negative,
and that this is what causes pain and trouble to the
LIVING BELIEFS
next life. Everything changes, say the sacred books,
nothing lasts even for a moment. It will be, and it
has been, is the life of man. The life that lives to- ^
morrow in the next incarnation is no more the life
that died in the last than the flame we light in the
lamp to-day is the same that went out yesternight.
It is as if a stone were thrown into a pool — that is
the life, the splash of the stone ; all that remains,
when the stone lies resting in the mud and weeds
below the waters of forgetfulness, are the circles
^ ever widening on the surface, and the ripples never
dying, but only spreading farther and farther away.
And all this seemed to me a mystery such as I
could not understand. But when I went to the
people, I found that it was simple enough to them ;
for I found that they remembered their former lives
often, that children, young children, could tell who
they were before they died, and remember details of
that former existence. As they grew older the
remembrance grew fainter and fainter, and at length
almost died away. But in many children it was
quite fresh, and was believed in beyond possibility
of a doubt by all the people. So I saw that the
teachings of their sacred books and the thoughts of
the people were not at one in this matter.
Again, I read that there was no God. Nats
there were, spirits of great power like angels, and
there was the Buddha (the just man made perfect),
who had worked out for all men the way to reach
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
surcease from evql ; but of God I saw nothing.
And because the Buddha had reached heaven (Nir-
vana), it would be useless to pray to him. For,
having entered into his perfect rest, he could not be'|
disturbed by the sharp cry of those suffering below ;
and if he heard, still he could not help; for each.
man must through pain and sorrow work out for
himself his own salvation. So all prayer is futile.
And then I remembered I had seen the young
mother going to the pagoda on the hilltop with a
little offering of a few roses or an orchid spray, and
pouring out her soul in passionate supplication to
Someone — Someone unknown to her sacred books
— that her firstborn might recover of his fever, and
be to her once more the measureless delisfht of her
life ; and it would seem to me that she must believe
in a God and in prayer after all.
So though I found much in these books that was
believed by the people, and much that was to them
the guiding influence of their lives, yet I was unable
to trust to them altogether, and I was in doubt
where to seek for the real beliefs of these people.
If I went to their monks, their holy men, the
followers of the great teacher, Gaudama, they re-
ferred me to their books as containing all that a
Buddhist believed ; and when I pointed out the
discrepancies, they only shook their heads, and said
that the people were an ignorant people and con-
fused their beliefs in that way.
LIVING BELIEFS
And when I asked what was a Buddhist, I was
told that, to be a Buddhist, a man must be accepted
into the religion with certain rites, certain cere-
monies, he must become for a time a member of the
community of the monks of the Buddha, and that a
Buddhist was he who was so accepted, and who
thereafter held by the teachings of the Buddha.
But when I searched the life of the Buddha, I
could not find any such ceremonies necessary at all.
So that it seemed that the religion of the Buddha
was one religion, and the religion of the Buddhists
another ; but when 1 said so to the monks, they
were horror-struck, and said that it was because 1
did not understand.
So in my perplexity I fell back, as we all must, to
my own thoughts and those of my own people ; and
I tried to imagine how a Burman would act if he
came to England to search into the religion of
the English and to know the impulses of our lives.
I saw how he would be sent to the Bible as the
source of our religion, how he would be told to study
that if he would know what we believed and what
we did not — what it was that gave colour to our
lives. I followed him In imagination as he took
the Bible and studied it, and then went forth and
watched our acts, and I could see him puzzled, as
I was now puzzled when I studied his people.
I thought of him reading the New Testament,
and how he would come to these verses :
8 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
* 27. But I say unto you which hear, Love your
enemies, do good to them which hate you,
' 28. Bless them that curse you, and pray for
them which despitefuUy use you.
' 29. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one
cheek offer also the other ; and him that taketh •
away thy cloke forbid him not to take thy coat
also.
' 30. Give to every man that asketh of thee ; and
of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not
again.'
He would read them again and again, these
wonderful verses, that he was told the people and
Church believed, and then he would go forth to
observe the result of this belief. And what would
he see ? He would see this : A nation proud and
revengeful, glorying in her victories, always at war,
a conqueror of other peoples, a mighty hater of her
enemies. He would find that in the public life of
the nation with other nations there was no thought
of this command. He would find, too, in her inner
life, that the man who took a cloak was not forgiven,
but was terribly punished— he used to be hanged.
He would find But need I say what he would
find ? Those who will read this are those very
people — they know. And the Burman would say
at length to himself. Can this be the belief of this
people at all ? Whatever their Book may say, they
do not think that it is good to humble yourself to
LIVING BELIEFS
your enemies — nay, but to strike back hard. It is
not good to let the wrong-doer go free. They think
the best way to stop crime is to punish severely.
Those are their acts ; the Book, they say, is their
belief. Could they act one thing and believe
another } Truly, are these their beliefs ?
And, again, he would read how that riches are an
offence to righteousness : hardly shall a rich man
enter into the kingdom of God. He would read
how the Teacher lived the life of the poorest among
us, and taught always that riches were to be
avoided.
And then he would go forth and observe a people
daily fighting and struggling to add field to field,
coin to coin, till death comes and ends the fight.
He would see everywhere wealth held in great
estimation ; he would see the very children urged
to do well, to make money, to struggle, to rise in
the world. He would see the lives of men who
have become rich held up as examples to be followed.
He would see the ministers who taught the Book
with fair incomes ranking themselves, not with the
poor, but with the middle classes ; he would see the
dignitaries of the Church — the men who lead the
way to heaven — among the wealthy of the land.
And he would wonder. Is it true, he would say
to himself, that these people believe that riches are
an evil thing ? Whence, then, come their acts, for
their acts seem to show that they hold riches to
lo THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
be a good thing. What is to be accepted as their
behef : the Book they say they beHeve, which con-
demns riches, or their acts, by which they show that
they hold that wealth is a good thing — ay, and if
used according to their ideas of right, a very good
thing indeed ?
So, it seemed to me, would a Burman be puzzled
if he came to us to find out our belief; and as
the Burman's difficulty in England was, vmtatis
mutandis, mine in Burma, I set to work to think the
matter out. How were the beliefs of a people
to be known, and why should there be such diffi-
culties in the way? If I could understand how
it was with us, it might help me to know how it
was with them.
And I have thought that the difficulty arises from
the fact that there are two ways of seeing a religion
— from within and from without — and that these
are as different as can possibly be. It is because
we forget there are the two standpoints that we fall
into error.
In every religion, to the believers in it, the crown
and glory of their creed is that it is a revelation
of truth, a lifting of the veil, behind which every
man born into this mystery desires to look.
They are sure, these believers, that they have the
truth, that they alone have the truth, and that it has
come direct from where alone truth can live. They
believe that in their religion alone lies safety for
LIVING BELIEFS n
man from the troubles of this world and from the
terrors and threats of the next, and that those alone
who follow its teaching will reach happiness here-
after, if not here. They believe, too, that this truth
only requires to be known to be understood and
accepted of all men ; that as the sun requires no
witness of its own warmth, so the truth requires no
evidence of its truth.
It is to them so eternally true, so matchless in
beauty, so convincing in itself, that adherents of all
other creeds have but to hear it pronounced and
they must believe. So, then, the question, How
do you know that your faith is true ? is as vain and
foolish as the cry of the wind in an empty house.
And if they be asked wherein lies their religion,
they will produce their sacred books, and declare
that in them is contained the whole matter. Here
is the very word of truth, herein is told the meaning
of all things, herein alone lies righteousness. This,
they say, is their faith : that they believe in every
line of it, this truth from everlasting to everlasting,
and that its precepts, and none other, can be held
by him who seeks to be a sincere believer. And
to these believers the manifestation of their faith
is that its believers attain salvation hereafter. But
as that is in the next world, if the unbeliever ask
what is the manifestation in this, the believers will
answer him that the true mark and sign whereby a
man may be known to hold the truth is the ob-
12 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
servance of certain forms, the performance of certain
ceremonies, more or less mystical, more or less
symbolical, of some esoteric meaning. That a man
should be baptized, should wear certain marks en
his forehead, should be accepted with certain rites,
is generally the outward and visible sign of a
believer, and the badge whereby others of the same
faith have known their fellows.
It has never been possible for any religion to
make the acts and deeds of its followers the test of
their belief. And for these reasons : that it is a test
no one could apply, and that if anyone were to
attempt to apply it, there would soon be no Church
at all. For to no one is it o-iven to be able to
observe in their entirety all the precepts of their
prophet, whoever that prophet may be. All must
fail, some more and some less, but generally more,
and thus all w^ould fall from the faith at some time
or another, and there would be no Church left.
And so another test has been made necessary. If
from his weakness a man cannot keep these precepts,
yet he can declare his belief in and his desire to
keep them, and here is a test that can be applied.
Certain rites have been instituted, and it has been
laid down that those who by their submission to
these rites show their belief in the truth and their
desire to follow that truth as far as in them lies,
shall be called the followers of the faith. And so
in time it has come about that these ceremonial
LIVING BELIEFS 13
rites have been held to be the true and only sign
of the believer, and the fact that they were but
to be the earnest of the beginning and living of
a new life has become less and less remembered,
till it has faded into nothingness. And so, instead
of the life being the main thing, and being absolutely
necessary to give value and emphasis to the belief,
it has come to pass that it is the belief, and the
acceptance of the belief, that has been held to hallow
the life and excuse and palliate its errors.
Thus of every religion is this true, that its
essence is a belief that certain doctrines are revela-
tions of eternal truth, and that the fruit of this truth
is the observance of certain forms. Morality and
works may or may not follow, but they are im-
material compared with the other. This, put shortly,
is the view of every believer.
But to him who does not believe in a faith, who
views it from without, from the standpoint of another
faith, the whole view is changed, the whole perspec-
tive altered. Those landmarks which to one within
the circle seem to stand out and overtop the world
are to the eyes of him without dwarfed often into
insignificance, and other points rise into importance.
For the outsider judges a religion as he judges
everything else in this world. He cannot begin by
accepting it as the only revelation of truth ; he can-
not proceed from the unknown to the known, but
the reverse. First of all, he tries to learn what the
14 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
beliefs of the people really are, and then he judges
from their lives what value this religion has to them.
He looks to acts as proofs of beliefs, to lives as the
ultimate effects of thoughts. And he finds out very
quickly that the sacred books of a people can never
be taken as showing more than approximately their
real beliefs. Always through the embroidery of the
new creed he will find the foundation of an older
faith, of older faiths, perhaps, and below these, again.
other beliefs that seem to be part of no system, but
to be the outcome of the orreat fear that is in the
world.
The more he searches, the more he will be sure
that there is only one guide to a man's faith, to his soul,
and that is not any book or system he may profess to
believe, but the real system that he follows — that is to
say, that a man's beliefs can be known even to himself
from his acts only. For it is futile to say that a man
believes in one thing and does another. That is not
a belief at all. A man may cheat himself, and say it
is, but in his heart he knows that it is not. A belief
is not a proposition to be assented to, and then put
away and forgotten. It is always in our minds, and
for ever in our thoughts. It guides our every action,
it colours our whole life. It is not for a day, but for
ever. When we have learnt that fire burns, we do
not put the belief away in a pigeon-hole of our
minds, there to rust for ever unused, nor do we go
straightway and put our hands in the flames. We
LIVING BELIEFS 15
remember It always ; we keep it as a guiding principle
of our daily lives.
A belief is a strand in the cord of our lives, that
runs through every fathom of it, from the time that
it is first twisted among the others till the time when
that life shall end. And as it is thus impossible for
the onlooker to accept from adherents of a creed a
definition of what they really believe, so it is im-
possible for him to acknowledge the forms and
ceremonies of which they speak as the real manifes-
tations of their creed.
It seems to the onlooker indifferent that men
should be dipped in water or not, that they should
have their heads shaved or wear long hair. Any
belief that is worth considering at all must have
results more important to its believers, more valuable
to mankind, than such signs as these. It is true that
of the great sign of all, that the followers of a creed
attain heaven hereafter, he cannot judge. He can
only tell of what he sees. This may or may not be
true ; but surely, if it be true, there must be some
sign of it here on earth beyond forms. A religion
that fits a soul for the hereafter will surely begin by
fitting it for the present, he will think. And it will
show that it does so otherwise than by ceremonies.
For forms and ceremonies that have no fruit in
action are not marks of a living truth, but of a dead
dogma. There is but little thought of forms to him
whose heart is full of the teaching of his Master,
i6 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
who has His words within his heart, and whose soul
is full of His love. It is when beliefs die, and love
has faded into indifference, that forms are necessary,
for to the living no monument is needed, but to the
dead. Forms and ceremonies are but the tombs of
dead truths, put up to their memory to recall to
those who have never known them that they lived
and died long ago.
And because men do not seek for signs of the
living among the graveyards of the dead, so it is not
among the ceremonies of religions that we shall find
the manifestations of living beliefs.
It is from the standpoint of this outsider that I
have looked at and tried to understand the soul of
the Burmese people. When I have read or heard
of a teaching of Buddhism, I have always taken it to
the test of the daily life of the people to see whether
it was a living belief or no. I have accepted just so
much as I could find the people have accepted, such
as they have taken into their hearts to be with them
for ever. A teaching that has been but a teaching
or theory, a vain breath of mental assent, has seemed
to me of no value at all. The guiding principles of
their lives, whether in accordance with the teaching
of Buddhism or not, these only have seemed to me
worthy of inquiry or understanding. What I have
desired to know is not their minds, but their souls.
And as this test of mine has obliged me to omit
much that will be found among the dogmas of
LIVING BELIEFS 17
Buddhism, so it has led me to accept many things
that have no place there at all. For I have thought
that what stirs the heart of man Is his rellorlon
whether he calls It religion or not. That which
makes the heart beat and the breath come quicker,
love and hate, and joy and sorrow — that has been to
me as worthy of record as his thoughts of a future life.
The thoughts that come Into the mind of the plough-
man while he leads his teams afield In the g(jlden
glory of the dawn ; the dreams that swell and move
in the heart of the woman when she knows the <J-reat
mystery of a new life ; whither the dying man's
hopes and fears are led — these have seemed to me
the religion of the people as well as doctrines of the
unknown. For are not these, too, of the very soul
of the people }
[ IS ]
CHAPTER II.
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 1.
' He who pointed out the way to those that had lost it.'
Life of the Buddlia.
The life-story of Prince Theiddaltha, who saw the
hght and became the Buddha twenty-five centuries
ago, has been told in English many times. It has
been told in translations from the Pali, from Burmese,
and from Chinese, and now everyone has read it.
The writers, too, of these books have been men
of great attainments, of untiring industry in search-
ing out all that can be known of this life, of gifts
such as I cannot aspire to. So that there is now
nothing new to learn of those long past days,
nothing fresh for me to tell, no discovery that can
be made. And yet in thinking out what I have
to say about the religion of the Burmese. I have
found that I must tell again some of the life of the
Buddha, I must rewrite this ten-times-told tale,
of which I know nothing new. And the reason is
this : that although I know nothing that previous
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT
19
writers have not known, although I cannot bring
to the task anything Hke their knowledge, yet I
have something to say that they have not said.
For they have written of him as they have learned
from books, whereas I want to write of him as
I have learned from men. Their knowledo-e has
been taken from the records of the dead past,
whereas mine is from the actualities of the living
present.
I do not mean that the Buddha of the sacred
books and the Buddha of the Burman's belief
are different persons. They are the same. But
as I found It with their faith, so I find it with the
life of their teacher. The Burmese regard the
life of the Buddha from quite a different standpoint
to that of an outsider, and so it has to them quite
a different value, quite a different meaning, to that
which it has to the student of history. For to the
writer who studies the life of the Buddha with, a
view merely to learn what that life was, and to
criticise it, everything is very different to what it
Is to the Buddhist who studies that life because
he loves it and admires it, and because he desires
to follow it. To the former the whole detail of
every portion of the life of the Buddha, every word
of his teaching, every act of his ministry, is sought
out and compared and considered. Legend is
compared with legend, and tradition with tradition,
that out of many authorities some clue to the actual
20 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
fact may be found. But to the Buddhist the
important parts in the great teacher's Hfe are
those acts, those words, that appeal direcdy to
him, that stand out bravely, lit with the light of
his own experiences and feelings, that assist him
in livinof his own life. His Buddha is the Buddha
he understands, and who understood and sympathized
with such as him. Other things may be true, but
they are matters of indifference.
To hear of the Buddha from living h'ps in this
country, which is full of his influence, where the
spire of his monastery marks every village, and
where every man has at one time or another been
his monk, is quite a different thing to reading of
him in far countries, under other skies and swayed
by other thoughts. To sit in the monastery garden
in the dusk, in just such a tropic dusk as he taught
in so many years ago, and hear the yellow-robed
monk tell of that life, and repeat his teaching of
love, and charity, and compassion — eternal love,
perfect charity, endless compassion — until the stars
come out in the purple sky, and the silver-voiced
gongs ring for evening prayers, is a thing never
to be forgotten. As you watch the starlight die
and the far-off hills fade into the night, as the
sounds about you become still, and the calm silence
of the summer night falls over the whole earth,
you know and understand the teacher of the Great
Peace as no words can tell you. A sympathy
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT
comes to you from the circle of believers, and you
believe, too. An influence and an understanding"
breathes from the nature about you — the same
nature that the teacher saw — from the whispering
fig-trees and the scented champaks, and the dimly
seen statues in the shadows of the shrines, that
you can never gain elsewhere. And as they tell
you the story of that great life, they bring it home
to you with reflection and comment, with applica-
tion to your everyday existence, till you forget
that he of whom they speak lived so long ago, so
very long ago, and your heart Is filled with sorrow
when you remember that he is dead, that he is
entered into his peace.
I do not hope that I can convey much of this
in my writing. I always feel the hopelessness of
trying to put on paper the great thoughts, the
intense feeling, of which Buddhism is so full. But
still I can, perhaps, give something of this life as I
have heard it, make it a little more living than it
has been to us, catch some little of that spirit of
sympathy that it holds for all the world.
Around the life of the Buddha has orathered much
myth, like dust upon an ancient statue, like shadows
upon the mountains far away, blurring detail here
and there, and hiding the beauty. There are all
sorts of stories of the great portents that foretold
his coming : ho'w the sun and the stars knew, and
how the wise men prophesied. Marvels attended
22 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
his birth, and miracles followed him in life and in
death. And the appearance of the miraculous has
even been heightened by the style of the chroniclers
in telling us of his mental conflicts : by the personi-
fication of evil in the spirit man, and of desire in
his three beautiful daughters.
All the teacher's thoughts, all his struggles, are
materialized into forms, that they may be more
readily brought home to the reader, that they may
be more clearly realized by a primitive people as
actual conflicts.
Therefore at first sight it seems that of all creeds
none is so full of miracle, so teeming with the
supernatural, as Buddhism, which is, indeed, the
very reverse of the truth. For to the supernatural
Buddhism owes nothing at all. It is in its very
essence opposed to all that goes beyond what we
can see of earthly laws, and miracle is never used
as evidence of the truth of any dogma or of any
doctrine.
If every supernatural occurrence were wiped clean
out of the chronicles of the faith, Buddhism would,
even to the least understanding of its followers,
remain exactly where it is. Not in one jot or tittle
would it suffer in the authority of its teaching.
The great figure of the teacher would even gain
were all the tinsel of the miraculous swept from
him, so that he stood forth to the world as he lived —
would gain not only to our eyes, but even to theirs
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT
23
who believe in him, for the Buddha was no prophet.
He was no messenger from any power above this
world, revealing- laws of that power. No one came
to whisper into his ear the secrets of eternity, and
to show him where truth lived. In no trance, in
no vision, did he enter into the presence of the
Unknown, and return from thence full of the
wisdom of another world ; neither did he teach the
worship of any god, of any power. He breathed no
threatenings of revenge for disobedience, of forgive-
ness for the penitent. He held out no everlasting
hell to those who refused to follow him, no easily
gained heaven to his believers.
He went out to seek wisdom, as many a one has
done, looking for the laws of God with clear eyes
to see, with a pure heart to understand, and after
many troubles, after many mistakes, after much
suffering, he came at last to the truth.
Even as Newton sought for the laws of God in
the movement of the stars, in the falling of a stone,
in the stir of the great waters, so this Newton of
the spiritual world sought for the secrets of life and
death, looking deep into the heart of man, marking
its toil, its suffering, its little joys with a soul attuned
to catch every quiver of the life of the world. And
as to Newton truth did not come spontaneously,
did not reveal itself to him at his first call, but had
to be sought with toil and weariness, till at last
he reached it where it hid in the heart of all
24 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
things, so it was with the prince. He was not
born with the knowledge in him, but had to seek
it as every other man has done. He made mistakes
as other men do. He wasted time and labour
following wrong roads, demonstrating to himself
the foolishness of many thoughts. But, never dis-
couraged, he sought on till he found, and what he
found he gave as a heritage to all men for ever,
that the wav mio-ht be easier for them than it had
been for him.
Nothing is more clear than this : that to the
Buddhist his teacher was but a man like himself,
erring and weak, who made himself perfect, and
that even as his teacher has done, so, too, may he
if he do but observe the everlasting laws of life
which the Buddha has shown to the world. These
laws are as immutable as Newton's laws, and come,
like his, from beyond our ken.
And this, too, is another point wherein the parallel
with Newton will help us : that just as when
Newton discovered gravitation he was obliged to
stop, for his knowledge of that did not lead him at
once to the knowledge of the infinite, so when he
had attained the laws of righteousness, Gaudama
the Buddha also stopped, because here his standing-
ground failed. It Is not true, that which has been
imputed to the Buddha by those who have never
tried to understand him — that he denied some power
oreater than ourselves ; that because he never tried
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 25
to define the indefinite, to confine the infinite within
the corners of a phrase, therefore his creed was
materialistic. We do not say of Newton that
he was an atheist because when he taught us of
gravity he did not go further and define to us in
equations Him who made gravity ; and as we under-
stand more of the Buddha, as we search into Hfe
and consider his teaching, as we try to think as he
thought, and to see as he saw, we understand that
he stopped as Newton stopped, because he had
come to the end of all that he could see, not because
he declared that he knew all things, and that beyond
his knowledge there was nothing.
No teacher more full of reverence, more humble
than Gaudama the Buddha ever lived to be an
example to us through all time. He tells us of what
he knows ; of what he knows not he is silent. Of the
laws that he can see, the great sequences of life and
death, of evil and sorrow, of goodness and happi-
ness, he tells in burning words. Of the beginning
and the end of the world, of the intentions and the
ways of the great Unknown, he tells us nothing at
all. He is no prophet, as we understand the word,
but a man ; and all that is divine in him beyond
what there is in us is that he hated the darkness
and sought the light, sought and was not dismayed,
and at last he found.
And yet nothing could be further from the truth
than to call the Buddha a philosopher and Buddhism
26 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
a philosophy. Whatever he was, he was no
philosopher. Although he knew not any god,
although he rested his claims to be heard upon the
fact that his teachings were clear and understand-
able, that you were not required to believe, but only
to open your eyes and see, and ' his delight was in
the contemplation of unclouded truth,' yet he was
far from a philosopher. His was not an appeal to
our reason, to our power of putting two and two
together and making five of them ; his teachings
were no curious designs woven with words, the
counters of his thought. He appealed to the heart,
not to the brain ; to our feelings, not to our power
of arranging these feelings. He drew men to him
by love and reverence, and held them so for ever.
Love and charity and compassion, endless com-
passion, are the foundations of his teachings ; and
his followers believe in him because they have seen
in him the just man made perfect, and because he
has shown to them the way in which all men may
become even as he is.
He was a prince in a little kingdom in the North-
east of India, the son of King Thudoodana and his
wife Maia. He was strong, we are told, and hand-
some, famous in athletic exercises, and his father
looked forward to the time when he should be grown
a great man, and a leader of armies. His father's
ambition for him was that he should be a great
conqueror, that he should lead his troops against the
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 27
neighbouring kings and overcome them, and in time
make for himself a wide-stretching empire. India
was in those days, as in many later ones, split up
into little kingdoms, divided from each other by no
natural boundary, overlooked by no sovereign power,
and always at war. And the king, as fathers are,
was full of dreams that this son of his should
subdue all India to himself, and be the glory of his
dynasty, and the founder of a great race.
Everything seemed to fall in with the desire of
the king. The prince grew up strong and valiant,
skilled in action, wise in counsel, so that all his
people were proud of him. Everything fell in with
the desire of the king except the prince himself, for
instead of being anxious to fight, to conquer other
countries, to be a great leader of armies, his desires
led him away from all this. Even as a boy he was
meditative and given to religious musings, and as
he grew up he became more and more confirmed in
his wish to know of sacred things, more and more
an inquirer into the mysteries of life.
He was taught all the faith of those days, a faith so
old that we do not know whence it came. He was
brought up to believe that life is immortal, that no
life can ever utterly die. He was taught that all
life is one; that there is not one life of the beasts
and one life of men, but that all life was one glorious
unity, one great essence coming from the Unknown.
Man is not a thing apart from this world, but of it.
28 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
As man's body is but the body of beasts, refined
and glorified, so the soul of man is but a higher
stage of the soul of beasts. Life is a great ladder. ]
I At the bottom are the lower forms of animals, and
/ some way up is man ; but all are climbing upwards
for ever, and sometimes, alas ! falling back. Exist- :•
ence is for each man a great struggle, punctuated
with many deaths ; and each death ends one period
but to allow another to begin, to give us a new
chance of working up and gaining heaven.
He was taught that this ladder is very high, that
its top is very far away, above us, out of our sight, and
that perfection and happiness lie up there, and that
we must strive to reach them. The greatest man,
even the greatest king, was farther below perfection
than an animal was below him. We are very near
the beasts, but very far from heaven. So he was
taught to remember that even as a very great prince
he was but a weak and erring soul, and that unless
he lived well and did honest deeds and was a true
man, instead of rising he might fall.
This teaching appealed to the prince far more
than all the urging of his father and of the courtiers
that he should strive to become a great conqueror.
It entered into his very soul, and his continual
thought w\as how he was to be a better man, how he
was to use this life of his so that he should gain and
not lose, and where he was to find happiness.
All the pomp and glory of the palace, all its
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 29
luxury and ease, appealed to him very litde. Even
in his early youth he found but little pleasure in it,
and he listened more to those who spoke of holi-
ness than to those who spoke of war. He desired,
we are told, to become a hermit, to cast off from
him his state and dignity, and to put on the yellow
garments of a mendicant, and beg his bread wander-
ing up and down upon the world, seeking for peace.
This disposition of the prince grieved his parents
very much. That their son, who was so full of
promise, so brave and so strong, so wise and so
much beloved by everyone, should become a mendi-
cant clad in unclean garments, begging his daily
food from house to house, seemed to them a horrible
thing. It could never be permitted that a prince
should disgrace himself in this way. Every effort
must be taken to eradicate such ideas ; after all, it
was but the melancholy of youth, and it would pass.
So stringent orders were given to distract his mind
in every way from solemn thoughts, to attempt by a
continued round of pleasure and luxury to attract
him to more worldly things. And when he was
eighteen he was married to his cousin Yathodaya, in
the hope that in marriage and paternity he might
forget his desire to be a hermit, might feel that love
was better than wisdom. And if Yathodaya had been
other than she was — who can tell ? — perhaps after
all the king might have succeeded ; but it was not
to be so. For to Yathodaya, too, life was a verv
30 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
solemn thing, not to be thrown away in laughter
and frivolity, but to be used as a great gift worthy
of all care. To the prince in his trouble there came
a kindred soul, and though from the palace all the
teachers of religion, all who would influence the
prince against the desires of his father, were banished,
yet Yathodaya more than made up to him for all
he had lost. For nearly ten years they lived
together there such a life as princes led in those
days in the East, not, perhaps, so very different
from what they lead now.
And all that time the prince had been gradually
making up his mind, slowly becoming sure that life
held something better than he had yet found,
hardening his determination that he must leave all
that he had and go out into the world looking for
peace. Despite all the efforts of the king his father,
despite the guards and his young men companions,
despite the beauty of the dancing-girls, the mysteries
of life came home to him, and he was afraid. It is
a beautiful story told in quaint imagery how it was
that the knowledo^e of sickness and of death came
to him, a horror stalking amid the glories of his
garden. He learnt, and he understood, that he
too would grow old, would fall sick, would die.
And beyond death ? There was the fear, and no
one could allay it. Daily he grew more and more
discontented with his life in the palace, more and
more averse to the pleasures that were around him.
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 31
Deeper and deeper he saw through the laughing
surface to the depths that lay beneath. Silently all
these thoughts ripened in his mind, till at last the
chanofe came. We are told that the end came
suddenly, the resolve was taken In a moment. The
lake fills and fills until at length it overflows, and in
a night the dam is broken, and the pent-up waters
are leaping far towards the sea.
As the prince returned from his last drive in his
garden with resolve firmly established In his heart,
there came to him the news that his wife had borne
to him a son. Wife and child, his cup of desire
was now full. But his resolve was unshaken.
' See, here is another tie, alas ! a new and stronger
tie that I must break,' he said ; but he never
wavered.
That night the prince left the palace. Silently
in the dead of night he left all the luxury about
him, and went out secretly with only his faithful
servant, Maunof San, to saddle for him his horse and
lead him forth. Only before he left he looked in
cautiously to see Yathodaya, the young wife and
mother. She was lying asleep, with one hand upon
the face of her firstborn, and the prince was afraid
to go further. 'To see him,' he said, *I must
remove the hand of his mother, and she may awake ;
and if she awake, how shall I depart } I will go,
then, without seeing my son. Later on, when all
these passions are faded from my heart, when I am
32 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
sure of myself, perhaps then I shall be able to see
him. But now I must go.'
So he went forth very silently and very sadly, and
leapt upon his horse — the great white horse that
would not neigh for fear of waking the sleeping
o-uards — and the prince and his faithful, noble.
Maung San went out into the night. He was only
twenty-eight when he fled from all his world, and
what he sought was this : ' Deliverance for men
from the misery of life, and the knowledge of the
truth that will lead them unto the Great Peace.'
This is the great renunciation.
I have often talked about this with the monks
and others, often heard them speak about this great
renunciation, of this parting of the prince and his
wife.
'You see,' said a monk once to me, 'he was not
yet the Buddha, he had not seen the light, only he
was desirous to look for it. He was just a prince,
just a man like any other man, and he was very
fond of his wife. It is very hard to resist a woman
if she loves you and cries, and if you love her. vSo
he was afraid.'
And when I said that Yathodaya was also religious
and had helped him in his thoughts, and that surely
she would not have stopped him, the monk shook
his head.
' Women are not like that,' he said.
And a woman said to me once : ' Surely she was
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 2>^
very much to be pitied because her husband went
away from her and her baby. Do you think that
when she talked rehgion with her husband she ever
thought that it would cause him to leave her and go
away for ever? If she had thought that, she would
never have done as she did. A woman would never
help anything to sever her husband from her, not
even religion. And when after ten years a baby
had come to her ! Surely she was very much to be
pitied.' This woman made me understand that the
hiohest relioion of a woman is the true love of her
o o
husband, of her children ; and what is it to her if she
gain the whole world, but lose that which she would
have ?
All the story of Yathodaya and her dealings with
her husband is full of the deepest pathos, full of
passionate protest against her loss, even in order
that her husband and all the world should gain.
She would have held him, if she could, against the
world, and deemed that she did well. And so,
though it is probable that it was a great deal owing
to Yathodaya's help, to her sympathy, to her support
in all his difficulties, that Gaudama came to his
final resolve to leave the world and seek for the
truth, yet she acted unwittingly of what would be
the end.
' She did not know,' said the woman. ' She helped
her husband, but she did not know to what. And
when she was ill, when she was giving birth to her
34 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
baby, then her husband left her. Surely she was
very much to be pitied.'
And so Yathodaya, the wife of the Prince Gaudama.
who became the Buddha, is held in high honour, in
great esteem, by all Buddhists. By the men, because
she helped her husband to his resolve to seek for the
truth, because she had been his great stay and help:
when everyone was against him, because if there
had been no Yathodaya there had been perchance
no Buddha. And by the women — I need not say
why she is honoured by all women. If ever there
was a story that appealed to woman's heart, surely
it is this : her love, her abandonment, her courage,
her submission when they met again in after-years,
her protest against being sacrificed upon the altar ot
her husband's religion. Truly, it is all of the very
essence of humanity. Whenever the story of the
Buddha comes to be written, then will be written
also the story of the life of Yathodaya his wife.
And if one is full of wisdom and teaching, the other
is full of suffering and teaching also. I cannot write
it here. I have so much to say on other matters
that there is no room. But some day it will be
written, I trust, this old message to a new world.
[ 35 ]
CHAPTER III.
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT II.
' He who never spake but good and wise words, he who was
the hght of the world, has found too soon the Peace.' — Lament on
the death of the Buddha.
The prince rode forth into the night, and as he went,
even in the first flush of his resolve, temptation came
to him. As the night closed behind he remembered
all he was leaving : he remembered his father and
his mother ; his heart was full of his wife and child.
' Return !' said the devil to him. ' What seek you
here ? Return, and be a good son, a good husband,
a good father. Remember all that you are leaving
to pursue vain thoughts. You, a great man — you
might be a great king, as your father wishes — a
mighty conqueror of nations. The night is very
dark, and the world before you is very empty.'
And the prince's heart was full of bitterness at the
thought of those he loved, of all that he was losing.
And yet he never wavered. He would not even
turn to look his last on the great white city lying in
36 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
a silver dream behind him. He set his face upon
his way, trampling beneath him every worldly con-
sideration, despising a power that was but vanity
and illusion ; he went on into the dark.
Presently he came to a river, the boundary of his
father's kingdom, and here he stopped. Then the-
prince turned to Muang San, and told him that he
must return. Beyond the river lay for the prince
the life of a holy man, who needed neither servant
nor horse, and Muang San must return. All his
prayers were in vain ; his supplications that he
might be allowed to follow his master as a disciple ;
his protestations of eternal faith. No, he must
return ; so Muang San went back with the horse,
and the prince was alone.
As he waited there alone by the river, alone in
the dark waitino- for the dawn ere he could cross,
alone with his own fears and thoughts, doubt came
to him again. He doubted if he had done right,
whether he should ever find the light, whether,
indeed, there was any light to find, and in his doubt
and distress he asked for a sign. He desired that it
might be shown to him whether all his efforts would
be in vain or not, whether he should ever win in the
struggle that was before him. We are told that the
sign came to him, and he knew that, whatever
happened, in the end all would go well, and he
would find that which he sought.
So he crossed the river out of his father's kingdom
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 37
into a strange country, and he put on the garment of
a recluse, and lived as they did.
He sought his bread as they did, going from house
to house for the broken victuals, which he collected
in a bowl, retiring to a quiet spot to eat.
The first time he collected this strange meal and
attempted to eat, his very soul rose against the dis-
tastefulness of the mess. He who had been a prince,
and accustomed to the very best of everything, could
not at first bring himself to eat such fare, and the
struggle was bitter. But in the end here, too, he
conquered. 'Was I not aware,' he said, with bitter
indignation at his weakness, ' that when I became a
recluse I must eat such food as this ? Now is the
time to trample upon the appetite of nature.' He
took up his bowl, and ate with a good appetite, and
the fig^ht had never to be fouofht ao^ain.
So in the fashion of those days he became a
seeker after truth. Men, then, when they desired
to find holiness, to seek for that which is better than
the things of this world, had to begin their search by
an utter repudiation of all that which the world
holds good. The rich and worldly wore handsome
garments, they would wear rags ; those of the world
were careful of their personal appearance, they
would despise it ; those of the world were cleanly,
the hermits were filthy ; those of the world were
decent, and had a care for outward observances, and
so hermits had no care for either decency or modesty.
38 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
The world was evil, surely, and therefore all that
the world held good was surely evil too. Wisdom
was to be sought in the very opposites of the conven-
tions of men.
The prince took on him their garments, and went
to them to learn from all that which they had learnt."
He went to all the wisest hermits of the land, to
those renowned for their wisdom and holiness ; and
this is what they taught him, this is all the light they
gave to him who came to them for light. ' There
is,' they said, 'the soul and the body of man, and
they are enemies ; therefore, to punish the soul, you
must destroy and punish the body. All that the
body holds good is evil to the soul.' And so they
purified their souls by ceremonies and forms, by
torture and starvation, by nakedness and contempt
of decency, by nameless abominations. And the
young prince studied all their teaching, and essayed
to follow their example, and he found it was all of
no use. Here he could find no way to happiness,
no raising of the soul to higher planes, but, rather, a
degradation towards the beasts. For self-punish-
ment is just as much a submission to the flesh as
luxury and self-indulgence. How can you forget
the body, and turn the soul to better thoughts, if
you are for ever torturing that body, and thereby
keeping it in memory.-^ You can keep your lusts
just as easily before your eyes by useless punishment
as by indulgence. And how can you turn your
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 39
mind to meditation and thought if your body is in
suffering ? So the prince soon saw that here was
not the way he wanted. His soul revolted from
them and their austerities, and he left them. As he
fathomed the emptiness of his counsellors of the
palace, so he fathomed the emptiness of the teachers
of the cave and monastery. If the powerful and
wealthy were ignorant, wisdom was not to be found
among the poor and feeble, and he was as far from
it as when he left the palace. And yet he did not
despair. Truth was somewhere, he was sure ; it
must be found if only it be looked for with patience
and sincerity, and he would find it. Surely there
was a greater wisdom than mere contempt of wealth
and comfort, surely a greater happiness than could
be found in self-torture and hysteria. And so, as he
could find no one to teach him, he went out into the
forest to look for truth there. In the great forests
where no one comes, where the deer feed and the
tiger creeps, he would seek what man could not give
him. They would know, those great trees that had
seen a thousand rains, and outlived thirty genera-
tions of men ; they would know, those streams that
flashed from the far snow summits ; surely the forest
and the hills, the dawn and the night, would have
something to tell him of the secrets of the world.
Nature can never lie, and here, far away from the
homes of men, he would learn that knowledge that
men could not give him. With a body purified by
40 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
abstinence, with a heart attuned by solitude, he
would listen as the winds talked to the mountains in
the dusk, and understand the beckoning of the stars.
And so, as many others did then and afterwards, he
left mankind and went to Nature for help. For six
years he lived so in the fastnesses of the hills.
We are told but very little of those six years,
only that he was often very lonely, often very sad
with the remembrance of all whom he had left.
' Think not,' he said many years later to a favourite
disciple — ' think not that I, though the Buddha,
have not felt all this even as any other of you. Was
I not alone when I was seeking for wisdom in the
wilderness ? And yet what could I have gained by
wailing and lamentation either for myself or for
others ? Would it have brought to me any solace
from my loneliness ? Would it have been any help
to those I had left T
And we are told that his fame as a solitary, as
a man who communed with Nature, and subdued his
own lower feelings, was so great that all men knew
of it. His fame was as a ' bell hung in the canopy
of the skies,' that all nations heard ; and many
disciples came to him. But despite all his fame
among men, he himself knew that he had not yet
come to the truth. Even the great soul of Nature
had failed to tell him what he desired. The truth
was as far off as ever, so he thought, and to those
that came to him for wisdom he had nothing to
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 41
teach. So, at the end of six years, despairing of
finding that which he sought, he entered upon a
great fast, and he pushed it to such an extreme
that at length he fainted from sheer exhaustion and
starvation.
And when he came to himself he recognized that
he had failed again. No light had shone upon his
dimmed eyes, no revelation had come to him in his
senselessness. All was as before, and the truth —
the truth, where was that ?
You see that he was no inspired teacher. He
had no one to show him the way he should go ; he
was tried with failure, with failure after failure. He
learnt as other men learn, through suffering and
mistake. Here was his third failure. The rich
had failed him, and the poor ; even the voices of
the hills had not told him of what he would know,
even the radiant finger of dawn had pointed to him
no way to happiness. Life was just as miserable,
as empty, as meaningless, as before.
All that he had done was in vain, and he must
try again, must seek out some new way, if he were
ever to find that which he soug^ht.
He rose from where he lay, and took his bowl
in his hands and went to the nearest village, and
ate heartily and drank, and his strength came back
to him, and the beauty he had lost returned.
And then came the final blow : his disciples left
him in scorn.
42 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
* Behold,' they said to each other, * he has lived
through six years of mortification and suffering in
vain. See, now, he goes forth and eats food, and
assuredly he who does this will never attain wisdom.
Our master's search is not after wisdom, but worldly
things ; we must look elsewhere for the guidance
that we seek.'
They departed, leaving him to bear his disap-
pointment alone, and they went into the solitude far
away, to continue in their own way and pursue their
search after their own method. He who was to be
the Buddha had failed, and was alone.
To the followers of the Buddha, to those of our
brothers who are trying to follow his teachings and
emulate his example to attain a like reward, can
there be any greater help than this : amid the failure
and despair of our own lives to remember that the
teacher failed, even as we are doing } If we find the
way dark and weary, if our footsteps fail, if we
wander in wrong paths, did not he do the same ?
And if we find we have to bear sufferings alone,
so had he ; if we find no one who can comfort us,
neither did he ; as we know in our hearts that we
stand alone, to fisfht with our own hands, so did he.
He is no model of perfection whom it is hopeless
for us to imitate, but a man like ourselves, who
failed and fought, and failed and fought again, and
won. And so, if we fail, we need not despair. Did
not our teacher fail ? What he has done, we can
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 43
do, for he has told us so. Let us be up again and
be of good heart, and we, too, shall win in the end.
even as he did. The reward will come in its own
good time if we strive and faint not.
Surely this comes home to all of our hearts— this
failure of him who found the light. That he should
have won — ah, well, that is beautiful ; but that he
should have failed and failed, that is what comes
home to us, because we too have failed mar.y
times. Can you wonder that his followers love
him ? Can you wonder that his teaching has come
home to them as never did teaching elsewhere ? I
do not think it is hard to see why : it is simply
because he was a man as we are. Had he been
other than a man, had truth been revealed to
him from the beginning, had he never fought,
had he never failed, do you think that he would
have held the love of men as he does ? I fear,
had it been so, this people would have lacked a
soul.
His disciples left him, and he was alone. He
went away to a great grove of trees near by — those
beautiful groves of mango and palm and fig that are
the delight of the heart in that land of burning,
flooding sunshine — and there he slept, defeated,
discredited, and abandoned ; and there the truth
came to him.
There is a story of how a young wife, coming to
offer her litde offerings to the spirit of the great fig-
44 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
tree, saw him, and took him for the spirit, so
beautiful was his face as he rose.
There are spirits in all the great trees, in all
the rivers, in all the hills — very beautiful, very
peaceful, loving calm and rest.
And the woman thought he was the spirit come
down to accept her offering, and she gave it to him
- — the cup of curdled milk — in fear and trembling,
and he took it. The woman went away again full
of hope and joy, and the prince remained in the
grove. He lived there for forty-nine days, we are
told, under the great fig-tree by the river. And the
fig-tree has become sacred for ever because he sat
there and because there he found the truth. We
are told of it all in wonderful trope and imagery — of
his last fight over sin, and of his victory.
There the truth came to him at last out of his own
heart. He had sought for it in men and in Nature,
and found it not, and, lo ! it was in his own heart.
When his eyes were cleared of imaginings, and
his body purified by temperance, then at last he saw,
dowm in his own soul, what he had sought the world
over for. Every man carries it there. It is never
dead, but lives with our life, this light that we seek.
We darken it, and turn our faces from it to follow
strange lights, to pursue vague glimmers in the
dark, and there, all the time, is the light in each
man's own heart. Darkened it may be, crusted
over with our ignorance and sin, but never dead.
HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT 45
never dead, always burning brightly for us when
we care to seek for it.
The truth for each man is in his own soul. And
so it came at last, and he who saw the light went
forth and preached it to all the world. He lived
a long life, a life full of wonderful teaching, of still
more marvellous example. All the world loved
him.
He saw again Yathodaya, she who had been his
wife ; he saw his son. Now, when passion was
dead in him, he could do these thinas. And
Yathodaya was full of despair, for if all the world
had gained a teacher, she had lost a husband. So
it will be for ever. This is the difference between
men and women. She became a nun, poor soul!
and her son — his son — became one of his disciples.
I do not think it is necessary for me to tell much
more of his life. Much has been told already by
Professor Max Muller and other scholars, who have
spared no pains to come to the truth of that life. I
do not wish to say more. So far, I have written to
emphasize the view which, I think, the Burmese
take of the Buddha, and how he came to his wisdom,
how he loved, and how he died.
He died at a great age, full of years and love.
The story of his death is most beautiful. There
is nowhere anything more wonderful than how, at
the end of that long good life, he entered into the
Great Peace for which he had prepared his soul.
46 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
* Ananda,' he said to his weeping disciple, * do
not be too much concerned with what shall remain
of me when I have entered into the Peace, but
be rather anxious to practise the works that lead
to perfection ; put on these inward dispositions
that will enable you also to reach the everlasting
rest.'
And again :
' When I shall have left life and am no more seen
by you, do not believe that I am no longer with you.
You have the laws that I have found, you have my
teachings still, and in them I shall be ever beside
you. Do not, therefore, think that I have left you
alone for ever.'
And before he died :
' Remember,' he said, ' that life and death are
one. Never forget this. For this purpose have I
gathered you together ; for life and death are one.'
And so ' the great and glorious teacher,' he who
never spoke but good and wise words, he who has
been the light of the world, entered into the Peace.
[47 ]
CHAPTER IV.
THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE.
' Come to Me : I teach a doctrine which leads to deliverance
from all the miseries of life.' — Saying of the Buddha.
To understand the teaching of Buddhism, it must
be remembered that to the Buddhist, as to the
Brahmin, man's soul is eternal.
In other faiths and other philosophies this is not
so. There the soul is immortal ; it cannot die,
but each man's soul appeared newly on his birth.
Its beginning is very recent.
To the Buddhist the beginning as well as the
end is out of our ken. Where we came from we
cannot know, but certainly the soul that appears
in each newborn babe is not a new thine. It has
come from everlasting, and the present life is
merely a scene in the endless drama of existence.
A man's identity, the sum of good and of evil
tendencies, which is his soul, never dies, but endures
for ever. Each body is but a case wherein the
soul is enshrined for the time.
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
And the state of that soul, whether good pre-
dominate in it or evil, is purely dependent on that
soul's thoughts and actions in time past.
Men are not born by chance wise or foolish,
righteous or wicked, strong or feeble. A man's
condition in life is the absolute result of an eternal
law that as a man sows so shall he reap ; that as
he reaps so has he sown.
Therefore, if you find a man's desires naturally
given towards evil, it is because he has in his past
lives educated himself to evil. And if he is righteous
and charitable, long-suffering and full of sympathy,
it is because in his past existence he has cultivated
these virtues ; he has followed goodness, and it
has become a habit of his soul.
Thus is every man his own maker. He has no
one to blame for his imperfections but himself, no
one to thank for his virtues but himself. Within
the unchangeable laws of righteousness each man
is absolutely the creator of himself and of his
own destiny. It has lain, and it lies, within each
man's power to determine what manner of man
he shall be. Nay, it not only lies within his
power to do so, but a man mits^ actually mould
himself. There is no other way in which he can
develop.
Every man has had an equal chance. If matters
are somewhat unequal now, there is no one to
blame but himself. It is within his power to
THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE 49
retrieve it, not perhaps in this short \\{&, but in
the next, maybe, or the next.
Man is not made perfect all of a sudden, but
takes time to grow, like all valuable things. You
might as well expect to raise a teak-tree in your
garden in a night as to make a righteous man in
a day. And thus not only is a man the sum of
his passions, his acts and his thoughts, in past time,
but he is in his daily life determining his future —
what sort of man he shall be. Every act, every
thought, has its effect, not only upon the outer
world, but upon the inner soul. If you follow
after evil, it becomes in time a habit of your soul.
If you follow after good, every good act is a
beautifying touch to your own soul.
Man is as he has made himself; man will be
as he makes himself. This is a very simple theory,
surely. It is not at all difficult to understand the
Buddhist standpoint in the matter. It is merely
the theory of evolution applied to the soul, with
this difference : that in its later stages it has become
a deliberate and a conscious evolution, and not an
unconscious one.
And the deduction from this is also simple. It
is true, says Buddhism, that every man is the
architect of himself, that he can make himself as
he chooses. Now, what every man desires is
happiness. As a man can form himself as he will,
It is within his power to make himself happy, if
4
50 • THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
he only knows how. Let us therefore carefully
consider what happiness is, that we may attain
it ; what misery is, that we may avoid it.
It is a commonplace of many religions, and of
many philosophies — nay, it is the actual base upon
which they have been built, that this is an evil
world.
Mahommedanism, indeed, thought that the world
was really a capital place, and that it was worth
while doing well in order to enjoy it. But most
other faiths thought very differently. Indeed, the
very meaning of most religions and philosophies
has been that they should be refuges from the
wickedness and unhappiness of the world. Accord-
ing to them the world has been a very weary world,
full of wickedness and of deceit, of war and strife,
of untruth and of hate, of all sorts of evil.
The world has been wicked, and man has been
unhappy in it.
' I do not know that any theory has usually been
propounded to explain why this is so. It has been
accepted as a fact that man is unhappy, accepted,
I think, by all faiths over the world. Indeed, it
is the belief that has been, one thinks, the cause
of faiths. Had the world been happy, surely there
had been no need of religions. In a summer sea,
where is the need of havens ? It is a generally-
accepted fact, accepted, as I have said, without
explanation. But the Buddhist has not been
THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE 51
contented to leave it so. He has thought that
It is in the right explanation of this cardinal fact
that lies all truth. Life suffers from a disease
called misery. He would be free from it. Let us,
then, says the Buddhist, first discover the cause
of this misery, and so only can we understand how
to cure it.'
And it is this explanation which is really the
distinguishing tenet of Buddhism, which differentiates
it from all other faiths and all philosophies.
The reason, says Buddhism, why men are un-
happy is that they are alive. Life and sorrow
are inseparable — nay, they are one and the same
thing. The mere fact of being alive is a misery.
When you have clear eyes and discern the truth,
you shall see this without a doubt, says the Buddhist.
For consider, What man has ever sat down and
said : ' Now am I in perfect happiness ; just as I
now am would I like to remain for ever and for
ever without change'? No man has ever done so.
What men desire is change. They weary of the
present, and desire the future ; and when the future
comes they find it no better than the past. Happi-
ness lies in yesterday and in to-morrow, but never
in to-day. In youth we look forward, in age we-
look back. What is change but the death of the
present? Life is change, and change is death, so
says the Buddhist. Men shudder at and fear death,
and yet death and life are the same thing — in-
4—2
52 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
separable, indistinguishable, and one with sorrow.
We men who desire life are as men athirst and
drinking of the sea. Every drop we drink of the
poisoned sea of existence urges on men surely to
greater thirst still. Yet we drink on blindly, and
say that we are athirst.
This is the explanation of Buddhism. The world
is unhappy because it is alive, because it does not
see that what it should strive for is not life,
not change and hurry and discontent and death,
but peace — the Great Peace. There is the goal to
which a man should strive.
See now how different it is from the Christian
theory. In Christianity there are two lives — this
and the next. The present is evil, because it is
under the empire of the devil — the world, the flesh,
and the devil. The next will be beautiful, because
it is under the reign of God, and the devil cannot
intrude.
But Buddhism acknowledges only one life — an
existence that has come from the forever, that may
extend to the forever. If this life is evil, then is
all life evil, and happiness can live but in peace,
in surcease from the troubles of this weary world.
If, then, a man desire happiness — and in all faiths
that is the desired end — he must strive to attain
peace. This, again, is not a difficult idea to under-
stand. It seems to me so simple that, when once
it has been listened to, it may be understood by
THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE 53
a child. I do not say believed and followed, but
understood. Belief is a different matter. ' The
law is deep ; it is difficult to know and to believe
it. It is very sublime, and can be comprehended
only by means of earnest meditation,' for Buddhism
is not a religion of children, but of men.
This is the doctrine that has caused Buddhism to
be called pessimism. Taught, as we have been
taught, to believe that life and death are antagonistic,
that life in the world to come is beautiful, that death
is a horror, it seems to us terrible to think that it is
indeed our very life itself that is the evil to be
eradicated, and that life and death are the same.
But to those that have seen the truth, and believed
it, it is not terrible, but beautiful. When you have
cleansed your eyes from the falseness of the flesh,
and come face to face with truth, it is beautiful.
' The law is sweet, filling the heart with joy.'
To the Buddhist, then, the end to be obtained is
the Great Peace, the mighty deliverance from all
sorrow. He must strive after peace ; on his own
efforts depends success or failure.
When the end and the agent have been deter-
mined, there remains but to discover the means, the
road whereby the end may be reached. How shall
a man so think and so act that he shall come at
length unto the Great Peace ? And the answer of
Buddhism to this question is here : good deeds
and good thoughts — these are the gate wherein
54 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
alone you may enter into the way. Be honourable
and just, be kind and compassionate, truth-loving
and averse to wrong — this is the beginning of the
road that leads unto happiness. Do good to others,
not in order that they may do good to you, but
because, by doing so, you do good to your own soul.
Give alms, and be charitable, for these things are
necessary to a man. Above all, learn love and
sym.pathy. Try to feel as others feel, try to under-
stand them, try to sympathize with them, and love
will come. Surely he was a Buddhist at heart who
wrote: 'Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.'
There is no balm to a man's heart like love, not
only the love others feel towards him, but that he
feels towards others. Be in love with all things, not
only with your fellows, but with the whole world,
with every creature that walks the earth, with the
birds in the air, with the insects in the grass. All
life is akin to man. Man's life is not apart from
other life, but of it, and if a man would make his
heart perfect, he must learn to sympathize with and
understand all the great world about him. But he
must always remember that he himself comes first.
To make others just, you must yourself be just ; to
make others happy, you must yourself be happy first ;
to be loved, you must first love. Consider your own
soul, to make it lovely. Such is the teaching of
Buddha. But if this were all, then would Buddhism
be but a repetition of the commonplaces of all
THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE 55
religions, of all philosophies. In this teaching of
righteousness is nothing new. Many teachers have
taught it, and all have learnt in the end that
righteousness is no sure road to happiness, to peace.
13uddhism goes farther than this. Honour and
righteousness, truth and love, are, it says, very
beautiful things, but are only the beginning of the
way ; they are but the gate. In themselves they
will never bring a man home to the Great Peace.
Herein lies no salvation from the troubles of the
world. Far more is required of a man than to be
righteous. Holiness alone is not the gate to happi-
ness, and all that have tried have found it so. It
alone will not give man surcease from pain. When
a man has so purified his heart by love, has so
weaned himself from wickedness by good acts and
deeds, then he shall have eyes to see the further way
that he should go. Then shall appear to him the
truth that it is indeed life that is the evil to be
avoided ; that life is sorrow, and that the man who
would escape evil and sorrow must escape from life
itself — not in death. The death of this life is but
the commencement of another, just as, if you dam a
stream in one direction, it will burst forth in another.
To take one's life now is to condemn one's self to
longer and more miserable life hereafter. The end
of misery lies in the Great Peace. A man must
estrange himself from the world, which is sorrow.
Hating struggle and fight, he will learn to love
56 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
peace, and to so discipline his soul that the world
shall appear to him clearly to be the unrest which it
is. Then, when his heart is fixed upon the Great
Peace, shall his soul come to it at last. Weary of
the earth, it shall come into the haven where there
are no more storms, where there is no more struggle, ,
but where reigns unutterable peace. It is not death, ■
but the Great Peace.
' Ever pure, and mirror bright and even,
Life among the immortals ghdes away ;
Moons are waning, generations changing,
Their celestial life flows everlasting.
Changeless 'midst a ruined world's decay.'
This is Nirvana, the end to which we must all
strive, the only end that there can be to the trouble
of the world. Each man must realize this for him-
self, each man will do so surely in time, and all will
come into the haven of rest. Surely this is a simple
faith, the only belief that the world has known that
is free from mystery and dogma, from ceremony and
priestcraft ; and to know that it is a beautiful faith
you have but to look at its believers and be sure.
If a people be contented in their faith, if they love
it and exalt it, and are never ashamed of it, and if it
exalts them and makes them happy, what greater
testimony can you have than that ?
It will seem that indeed I have compressed the
teaching of this faith into too small a space — this
faith about which so many books have been written,
THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE 57
so much discussion has taken place. But I do not
think it is so. I cannot see that even in this short
chapter I have left out anything that is important in
Buddhism. It is such a simple faith that all may be
said in a very few words. It would be, of course,
possible to refine on and gloze over certain points of
the teaching. The real proof of the faith is in the
results, in the deeds that men do in its name. Dis-
cussion will not alter these one way or another.
[58]
CHAPTER V.
WAR — I.
' Love each other and hve in peace.'
Saying of the Buddha.
This is the Buddhist behef as I have understood it,
and I have written so far in order to explain what
follows. For my object is not to explain what the
Buddha taught, but what the Burmese believe ; and
this is not quite the same thing, though in nearly
every action of their life the influence of Buddhism
is visible more or less strongly. Therefore I propose
to describe shortly the ideas of the Burmese people
upon the main objects of life ; and to show how much
or how little Buddhism has affected their conceptions.
I will begin with courage.
I think it will be evident that there is no quality
upon which the success of a nation so much depends
as upon its courage. No nation can rise to a high
place without being brave ; it cannot maintain its
independence even ; it cannot push forward upon
any path of life without courage. Nations that are
cowards must fail.
WAR 59
I am aware that the courage of a nation depends,
as do its other qualities, upon many things : its
situation with regard to other nations, its climate, its
occupations. It is a great subject that I cannot go
into. I wish to take all such things as I find them,
and to discuss only the effect of the religion upon
the courage of the people, upon Its fighting capa-
bilities. That religion may have a very serious
effect one way or the other, no one can doubt. I
went through the war of annexation, from 1885 to
1889, and from It I will draw my examples.
When we declared war In Upper Burma, and the
column advanced up the river in November, 1885,
there was hardly any opposition. A little fight
there was at the frontier fort of Mlnhla, but beyond
that nothinor. The river that micrht have been
blocked was open ; the earthworks had no cannon,
the men no guns. Such a collapse was never seen.
There was no organization, no material, no money.
The men wanted officers to command and teach
them ; the officers wanted authority and ability to
command. The people looked to their rulers to
repel the invaders ; the rulers looked to the people.
There was no common Intelligence or will between
them. Everything was wanting ; nothing was as it
should be. And so Mandalay fell without a shot,
and King Thibaw, the young. Incapable, kind-
hearted king, was taken Into captivity.
That was the end of the first act, brief and blood-
6o THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
less. For a time the people were stupefied. They
could not understand what had happened ; they
could not guess what was going to happen. They
expected that the English would soon retire, and
that then their own government would reorganize
itself. Meanwhile they kept quiet.
It is curious to think how peaceful the country (
really was from November, 1885, till June, 1886.
And then the trouble came. The people had by
that time, even in the wild forest villages, begun
to understand that we wanted to stay, that we did
not intend going away unless forced to. They felt
that it was of no further use looking to Mandalay
for help. We had begun, too, to consider about
collecting taxes, to interfere with the simple
machinery of local affairs, to show that we meant to
govern. And as the people did not desire to be
governed — certainly not by foreigners, at least — they
began to organize resistance. They looked to their
local leaders for help, and, as too often these local
governors were not very capable men, they sought,
as all people have done, the assistance of such men
of war as they could find — brigands, and freelances,
and the like — and put themselves under their orders.
The whole country rose, from Bhamo to Minhla,
from the Shan Plateau to the Chin Mountains. All
Upper Burma was in a passion of insurrection, a
very fury of rebellion against the usurping foreigners.
Our authority was confined to the range of our guns.
WAR 6i
Our forts were attacked, our convoys ambushed,
our steamers fired into on the rivers. There was
no safety for an Englishman or a native of India,
save within the Hnes of our troops, and It was soon
felt that these troops were far too few to cope with
the danger. To overthrow King Thibaw was easy,
to subdue the people a very different thing.
It Is almost Impossible to describe the state of
Upper Burma in 1886. It must be remembered
that the central government was never very strong
— in fact, that beyond collecting a certain amount
of taxes, and appointing governors to the different
provinces, it hardly made Itself felt outside Mandalay
and the large river towns. The people to a great
extent governed themselves. They had a very
good system of village government, and managed
nearly all their local affairs. But beyond the
presence of a governor, there was but little to
attach them to the central government. There
was, and is, absolutely no aristocracy of any kind at
all. The Burmese are a community of equals, In a
sense that has probably never been known else-
where. All their institutions are the very opposite
to feudalism. Now, feudalism vv^as instituted to be
useful in war. The Burmese customs were instituted
that men should live in comfort and ease durlnsf
peace ; they were useless in war. So the natural
leaders of a people, as In other countries, were
absent. There were no local great men ; the
62 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
governors were men appointed from time to time
from Mandalay, and usually knew nothing of their
charges ; there were no rich men, no large land-
holders— not one. There still remained, however,
one Institution that other nations have made useful
in war, namely, the organization of religion. For,
Buddhism is fairly well organized — certainly much
better than ever the government was. It has Its
heads of monasteries, its Galng-dauks, Its Galng-oks,
and finally the Thathanabaing, the head of the
Burmese Buddhism. The overthrow of King
Thibaw had not Injured any of this. This was an
organization in touch with the whole people, revered
and honoured by every man and woman and child
in the country. In this terrible scene of anarchy
and confusion, In this death peril of their nation,
what were the monks doing .-^
We know what relitrion can do. We have seen
how it can preach war and resistance, and can
orofanize that war and resistance. We know what
ten thousand priests preaching in ten thousand
hamlets can effect in making a people almost un-
conquerable, in directing their armies, in strengthen-
ing their determination. We remember La Vendee,
we remember our Puritans, and we have had
recent experience in the Soudan. We know what
Christianity has done again and again ; what Judaism,
what Mahommedanism, what many kinds of paganism,
have done.
WAR 63
To those coming to Burma in those days, fresh
from the teachings of Europe, remembering recent
events in history, ignorant of what Buddhism means,
there was nothing more surprising than the fact
that in this war rehgion had no place. They rode
about and saw the country full of monasteries ; they
saw the monasteries full of monks, whom they called
priests ; they saw that the people were intensely
attached to their religion ; they had daily evidence
that Buddhism was an abiding faith in the hearts of
the people. And yet, for all the assistance it was
to them in the war, the Burmese might have had no
faith at all.
And the explanation is, that the teachings of the
Buddha forbid war. All killing is wrong, all war
is hateful ; nothing is more terrible than this
destroying of your fellow-man. There is absolutely
no getting free of this commandment. The teaching
of the Buddha is that you must strive to make
your own soul perfect. This is the first of all
things, and comes before any other consideration.
Be pure and kind - hearted, full of charity and
compassion, and so you may do good to others.
These are the vows the Buddhist monks make, these
are the vows they keep ; and so it happened that
all that great organization was useless to the patriot
fighter, was worse than useless, for it was against
him. The whole spectacle of Burma in those days,
with the country seething with strife, and the monks
64 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
going about their business calmly as ever, begging
their bread from door to door, preaching of peace,
not war, of kindness, not hatred, of pity, not
revenge, was to most foreigners quite inexplicable.
They could not understand it. I remember a friend
of mine with whom I went through many experiences
speaking of it with scorn. He was a cavalry officer, •
' the model of a light cavalry officer ' ; he had with
him a squadron of his regiment, and we were trying
to subdue a very troubled part of the country.
We were camping in a monastery, as we fre-
quendy did — a monastery on a hill near a high
golden pagoda. The country all round was under
the sway of a brigand leader, and sorely the villagers
suffered at his hands now that he had leapt into
unexpected power. The villages were half aban-
doned, the fields untilled, the people full of unrest ;
but the monasteries were as full of monks as ever ;
the gongs rang, as they ever did, their message
through the quiet evening air ; the little boys were
taught there just the same ; the trees were watered
and the gardens swept as if there were no change
at all— as if the king were still on his golden throne,
and the English had never come ; as if war had
never burst upon them. And to us, after the very
different scenes we saw now and then, saw and
acted in, these monks and their monasteries were
difficult to understand. The religion of the Buddha
thus professed was strange.
WAR 65
' What is the use,' said my friend, ' of this reHgion
that we see so many signs of? Suppose these men
had been Jews or Hindus or Mussulmans, it would
have been a very different business, this war.
These yellow-robed monks, instead of sitting in
their monasteries, would have pervaded the country,
preaching against us and organizing. No one
organizes better than an ecclesiastic. We should
have had them leading their men into action with
sacred banners, and promising them heaven here-
after when they died. They would have made
Ghazis of them. Any one of these is a religion
worth having. But what is the use of Buddhism ?
What do these monks do? I never see them in
a fight, never hear that they are doing anything
to organize the people. It is, perhaps, as well for
us that they do not. But what is the use of
Buddhism ?'
So, or somewhat like this, spoke my friend,
speaking as a soldier. Each of us speaks from
our own standpoint. He was a brilliant soldier,
and a religion was to him a sword, a thing to
fight with. That was one of the first uses of a
religion. He knew nothing of Buddhism ; he cared
to know nothing, beyond whether it would fight.
If so, it was a good religion in its way. If not,
then not.
Religion meant to him something that would
help you in your trouble, that would be a stay
5
66 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
and a comfort, a sword to your enemies and a
prop for yourself. Though he was himself an
invader, he felt that the Burmans did no wrong
in resisting him. They fought for their homes,
as he would have fought ; and their religion, if of
any value, should assist them. It should urge them
to battle, and promise them peace and happiness;
if dying in a good cause. His faith would do this
for him. What was Buddhism doing ? What help
did it give to its believers in their extremity ? It
gave none. Think of the peasant lying there in
the ghostly dim-lit fields waiting to attack us at
the dawn. Where was his help ? He thought,
perhaps, of his king deported, his village invaded,
his friends killed, himself reduced to the subject
of a far-off queen. He would fight — yes, even
though his faith told him not. There was no help
there. His was no faith to strengthen his arm,
to straighten his aim, to be his shield in the hour
of danger.
If he died, if in the strife of the morning's fight
he were to be killed, if a bullet were to still his
heart, or a lance to pierce his chest, there was no
hope for him of the glory of heaven. No, but
every fear of hell, for he was sinning against the
laws of righteousness — ' Thou shalt take no life.'
There is no exception to that at all, not even for
a patriot fighting for his country. ' Thou shalt not
take the life even of him who is the enemy of your
WAR 67
king and nation.' He could count on no help in
breaking the everlasting laws that the Buddha has
revealed to us. If he went to his monks, they could
but say : ' See the law, the unchangeable law that
man is subject to. There is no good thing but
peace, no sin like strife and war.' That is what
the followers of the great teacher would tell the
peasant yearning for help to strike a blow upon
the invaders. The law is the same for all. There
is not one law for you and another for the foreigner ;
there is not one law to-day and another to-morrow.
Truth is for ever and for ever. It cannot change
even to help you in your extremity. Think of the
English soldier and the Burmese peasant. Can
there be anywhere a greater contrast than this ?
Truly this is not a creed for a soldier, not a creed
for a fighting-man of any kind, for what the soldier
wants is a personal god who will always be on his
side, always share his opinions, always support him
against everyone else. But a law that points out
unalterably that right is always right, and wrong
always wrong, that nothing can alter one into the
other, nothing can ever make killing righteous and
violence honourable, that is no creed for a soldier.
And Buddhism has ever done this. It never bent
to popular opinion, never made itself a tool in the
hands of worldly passion. It could not. You might
as well say to gravity, ' I want to lift this stone ;
please don't act on it for a time,' as expect Buddhism
5—2
68 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
to assist you to make war. Buddhism is the un-
alterable law of righteousness, and cannot ally itself
with evil, cannot ever be persuaded that under any
circumstances evil can be good.
And so the Burmese peasant had to fight his own
fight in 1885 alone. His king was gone, his,
government broken up, he had no leaders. He had;
no orod to stand beside him when he fired at the
foreign inv^aders ; and when he lay a-dying, with a
bullet in his throat, he had no one to open to him
the ofates of heaven.
And yet he fought — with every possible dis-
couragement he fought, and sometimes he fought
well. It has been thrown against him as a reproach
that he did not do better. Those who have said
this have never thought, never counted up the odds
against him, never taken into consideration how
often he did well.
Here was a people — a very poor people of peasants
— with no leaders, absolutely none ; no aristocracy
of any kind, no cohesion, no fighting religion. They
had for their leaders outlaws and desperadoes, and
for arms old flint-lock guns and soft iron swords.
Could anything be expected from this except what
actually did happen ? And yet they often did well,
their natural courage overcoming their bad weapons,
their passionate desire of freedom giving them the
necessary impulse.
In 1886, as I have said, all Burma was up. Even
WAR 69
in the lower country, which we held for so long,
insurrection was spreading fast, and troops and
military police were being poured in from India.
There is above Mandalay a large trading village
— a small town almost — called Shemmaga. It is the
river port for a large trade in salt from the inner
country, and it was important to hold it. The
village lay along the river bank, and about the
middle of it, some two hundred yards from the river,
rises a small hill. Thus the village was a triangle,
with the base on the river, and the hill as apex.
On the hill were some monasteries of teak, from
which the monks had been ejected, and three hun-
dred Ghurkas were in garrison there. A strong
fence ran from the hill to the river like two arms,
and there were three gates, one just by the hill, and
one on each end of the river face.
Behind Shemmaga the country was under the rule
of a robber chief called Maung Yaing, who could raise
from among the peasants some two hundred or three
hundred men, armed mosdy with flint-locks. He
had been in the king's time a brigand with a small
number of followers, who defied or eluded the local
authorities, and lived free in quarters among the
most distant villages. Like many a robber chief in
our country and elsewhere, he was liked rather than
hated by the people, for his brutalities were confined
to either strangers or personal enemies, and he was
open-handed and generous. We look upon things
70 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
now with different eyes to what we did two or three
hundred years ago, but I dare say IMaung Yaing
was neither better nor worse than many a hero of
ours long ago. He was a fairly good fighter, and
had a little experience fighting the king's troops ;
and so it was very natural, when the machinery
of government fell like a house of cards, and some ?
leaders were wanted, that the young men should
crowd to him, and put themselves under his orders.
He had usually with him forty or fifty men, but he
could, as I have said, raise five or six times as many
for any particular service, and keep them together
for a few days. He very soon discovered that he
and his men were absolutely no match for our
troops. In two or three attempts that he made to
oppose the troops he was signally worsted, so he
was obliged to change his tactics. He decided to
boycott the enemy. No Burman was to accept
service under him, to give him information or
supplies, to be his guide, or to assist him in any
way. This rule Maung Yaing made generally
known, and he announced his intention of enforcino-
it with rigour. And he did so. There was a head
man of a village near Shemmaga whom he executed
because he had acted as guide to a body of troops,
and he cut off all supplies from the interior, lying on
the roads, and stopping all men from entering Shem-
maga. He further issued a notice that the inhabi-
tants of Shemmaga itself should leave the town.
WAR 71
They could not move the garrison, therefore the
people must move themselves. No assistance must
be given to the enemy. The villagers of Shem-
maga, mostly small traders in salt and rice, were
naturally averse to leaving. This trade was their
only means of livelihood, the houses their only
homes, and they did not like the idea of going out
into the unknown country behind. Moreover, the
exaction by Maung Yaing of money and supplies for
his men fell most heavily on the wealthier men, and
on the whole they were not sorry to have the English
garrison in the town, so that they could trade in peace.
Some few left, but most did not, and though they col-
lected money, and sent it to Maung Yaing, they at
the same time told the English officer in command of
Maung Yaing's threats, and begged that great care
should be taken of the town, for Maung Yaing was
very angry. When he found he could not cause the
abandonment of the town, he sent in word to say
that he would burn it. Not three hundred foreigners,
nor three thousand, should protect these lazy, un-
patriotic folk from his vengeance. He gave them
till the new moon of a certain month, and if the town
were not evacuated by that time he declared that he
would destroy it. He would burn it down, and kill
certain men whom he mentioned, who had been the
principal assistants of the foreigners. This warning-
was quite public, and came to the ears of the English
officer almost at once. When he heard it he laughed.
72 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
He had three hundred men, and the rebels had
three hundred. His were all magnificently trained
and drilled troops, men made for war ; the Burmans
were peasants, unarmed, untrained. He could have
defeated three thousand of them, or ten times that
number, with his little force, and so, of course, he
could if he met them in the open ; no one knew that ,
better, by bitter experience, than Maung Yaing.
The villagers, too, knew, but nevertheless they
were stricken with fear, for Maung Yaing was a
man of his word. He was as good as his threat.
One night, at midnight, the face of the fort where
the Ghurkas lived on the hill was suddenly attacked.
Out of the brushwood near by a heavy fire was
opened upon the breastwork, and there was shouting
and beating of gongs. So all the Ghurkas turned
out in a hurry, and ran to man the breastwork,
and the return fire became hot and heavy. In a
moment, as it seemed, the attackers were in the
village. They had burst in the north gate by the
river face, killed the guard on it, and streamed in.
They lit torches from a fire they found burning, and
in a moment the village was on fire. Looking down
from the hill, you could see the village rushing into
flame, and in the lurid light men and women and
children running about wildly. There were shouts
and screams and shots. No one who has never
heard it, never seen it, can know what a village
is like when the enemy has burst in at night.
WAR 73
Everyone is mad with hate, with despair, with
terror. They run to and fro, seeking to kill,
seeking to escape being killed. No one can tell
one from another. The bravest man is dismayed.
And the noise is like a great moan coming out of
the night, pierced with sharp cries. It rises and
falls, like the death-cry of a dying giant. It is the
most terrible sound in the world. It makes the
heart stop.
To the Ghurkas this sight and sound came all of
a sudden, as they were defending what they took to
be a determined attack on their own position. The
village was lost ere they knew it was attacked.
And two steamers full of troops, anchored off the
town, saw it, too. They were on their way up
country, and had halted there that night, anchored
in the stream. They were close by, but could not
fire, for there was no telling friend from foe.
And before the relief party of Ghurkas could
come swarming down the hill, only two hundred
yards, before the boats could land the eager troops
from the steamers, the rebels were gone. They
went through the village and out of the south gate.
They had fulfilled their threat and destroyed the
town. They had killed the men they had declared
they would kill. The firing died away from the fort
side, and the enemy were gone, no one could tell
whither, into the night.
Such a scene of desolation as that village was
74 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
next day ! It was all destroyed — every house. All
the food was gone, all furniture, all clothes, every-
thing, and here and there was a corpse in among
the blackened cinders. The whole countryside was
terror-stricken at this failure to defend those who
had depended on us.
I do not think this was a particularly gallant act, ,
but it was a very able one. It was certainly war.
It taught us a very severe lesson — more severe
than a personal reverse would have been. It
struck terror in the countryside. The memory
of it hampered us for very long ; even now they
often talk of it. It was a brutal act — that of a
brigand, not a soldier.
But there was no want of courage. If these men,
inferior in number, in arms, in everything, could do
this under the lead of a robber chief, what would
they not have done if well led, if well trained, if well
armed ?
And of desperate encounters between our troops
and the insurgents I could tell many a story. I
have myself seen such fights. They nearly always
ended in our favour — how could it be otherwise ?
There was Ta Te, who occupied a pagoda en-
closure with some eighty men, and was attacked by
our mounted infantry. There was a long fight in that
hot afternoon, and very soon the insurgents' ammuni-
tion began to fail, and the pagoda was stormed. Many
men were killed, and Ta Te, when his men were
WAR 75
nearly all dead, and his ammunition quite expended,
climbed up the pagoda wall, and twisted off pieces
of the cement and threw them at the troops. He
would not surrender — not he — and he was killed.
There were many like him. The whole war was
little affairs of this kind — a hundred, three hundred,
of our men, and much the same, or a little more, of
theirs. They only once or twice raised a force of
two thousand men. Nothing- can speak more forcibly
of their want of organization than this. The whole
country was pervaded by bands of fifty or a hundred
men, very rarely amounting to more than two hun-
dred, never, I think, to three hundred, armed men,
and no two bands ever acted in concert.
It is probable that most of the best men of the
country were against us. It is certain, I think, that
of those who openly joined us and accompanied us
in our expedition, very, very few were other than
men who had some private grudge to avenge, or
some purpose to gain, by opposing their own people.
Of such as these you cannot expect very much.
And yet there were exceptions — men who showed
up all the more brilliantly because they were excep-
tions— men whom I shall always honour. There
were two I remember best of all. They are both
dead now.
One was the eldest son of the hereditary governor
of a part of the country called Kawlin. It is in the
north-west of Upper Burma, and bordered on a
76 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
semi-independent state called Wuntho. In the
troubles that occurred after the deposition of King
Thibaw, the Prince of Wuntho thought that he
would be able to make for himself an independent
kingdom, and he began by annexing Kawlin. So
the governor had to flee, and with him his sons, and
naturally enough they joined our columns when we-
advanced in that direction, hoping to be replaced.
They were replaced, the father as governor under the
direction of an English magistrate, and the son as his
assistant. They were only kept there by our troops,
and upheld in authority by our power against Wuntho.
But they were desired by many of their own people,
and so, perhaps, they could hardly be called traitors,
as many of those who joined us were. The father
was a useless old man, but his son, he of whom I
speak, was brave and honourable, good tempered
and courteous, beyond most men whom I have met.
It was well known that he was the real power
behind his father. It was he who assisted us in an
attempt to quell the insurrections and catch the
raiders that troubled our peace, and many a time
they tried to kill him, many a time to murder him as
he slept.
There was a large gang of insurgents who came
across the Mu River one day, and robbed one of his
villages, so a squadron of cavalry was sent in pursuit.
We travelled fast and long, but we could not catch
the raiders. We crossed the Mu into unknown
WAR 77
country, following their tracks, and at last, being
without guides, we camped that night in a little
monastery in the forest. At midnight we Mere
attacked. A road ran through our camp, and there
was a picket at each end of the road, and sentries
were doubled.
It was just after midnight that the first shot was
fired. We were all asleep when a sudden volley
was poured into the south picket, killing one sentry
and wounding another. There was no time to dress,
and we ran down the steps as we were (in sleeping
dresses), to find the men rapidly falling in, and the
horses kicking at their pickets. It was pitch-dark.
The monastery was on a little cleared space, and
there was forest all round that looked very black.
Just as we came to the foot of the steps an outbreak
of firing and shouts came from the north, and the
Burmese tried to rush our camp from there ; then
they tried to rush it again from the south, but all
their attempts were baffled by the steadiness of the
pickets and the reinforcements that were running up.
So the Burmese, finding the surprise ineffectual, and
that the camp could not be taken, spread themselves
about in the forest in vantage places, and fired into
the camp. Nothing could be seen except the
dazzling flashes from their guns as they fired here
and there, and the darkness was all the darker for
those flashes of flame, that cut it like swords. It
was very cold. I had left my blanket in the monas-
78 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
tery, arid no one was allowed to ascend, because
there, of all places, the bullets flew thickest, crush-
ing through the mat walls, and going into the teak
posts with a thud. There was nothing we could do.
The men, placed in due order about the camp, fired
back at the flashes of the enemy's guns. That was
all they had to fire at. It was not much guide..
The officers went from picket to picket encouraging
the men, but I had no duty ; when fighting began
my work as a civilian was at a standstill. I sat and
shivered with cold under the monastery, and wished
for the dawn. In a pause of the firing you could
hear the followers hammering the pegs that held ihe
foot-ropes of the horses. Then the dead and
wounded were brought and put near me, and in the
dense dark the doctor tried to find out what injuries
the men had received, and dress them as well as he
could. No light dare be lit. The night seemed
interminable. There were no stars, for a dense mist
hung above the trees. After an hour or two the
firing slackened a little, and presently, with great
caution, a little lamp, carefully shrouded with a
blanket, was lit. A sudden burst of shots that
came splintering into the posts beside us caused
the lamp to be hurriedly put out ; but presently it
was lit again, and with infinite caution one man was
dressed. At last a little very faint silver dawn came
gleaming through the tree-tops — the most beautiful
sight I ever saw — and the firing stopped. The dawn
WAR
79
came quickly down, and very soon we were able
once more to see what we were about, and count our
losses.
Then we moved out. We had hardly any hope
of catching the enemy, we who were in a strange
country, who were mounted on horses, and had
a heavy transport, and they who knew every stream
and ravine, and had every villager for a spy. So
we moved back a march into a more open country,
where we hoped for better news, and two days later
that news came.
[8o]
CHAPTER VI.
WAR II.
'Never in the world does hatred cease by hatred. Hatred
ceases by love.' — Dammapada.
We were camped at a little monastery in some
fields by a village, with a river in front. Up in the
monastery there was but room for the officers, so
small was it, and the men were camped beneath
it in little shelters. It was two o'clock, and very
hot, and we were just about to take tiffin, when
news came that a party of armed men had been
seen passing a little north of us. It was supposed
they were bound to a village known to be a very
bad one — Laka — and that they would camp there.
So ' boot and saddle ' rang from the trumpets, and
in a few moments later we were off, fifty lances.
Just as we started, his old Hindostani Christian
servant came up to my friend, the commandant,
and gave him a little paper. ' Put it in your pocket,
sahib,' he said. The commandant had no time to
talk, no time even to look at what it could be.
WAR
He just crammed it into his breast-pocket, and
we rode on. The governor's son was our guide,
and he led us through winding lanes into a pass
in the low hills. The road was very narrow, and
the heavy forest came down to our elbows as we
passed. Now and again we crossed the stream,
which had but little water in it, and the path
would skirt its banks for awhile. It was beautiful
country, but we had no time to notice it then, for
we were in a hurry, and whenever the road would
allow we trotted and cantered. After five or six
miles of this we turned a spur of the hills, and
came out into a little grass-glade on the banks of
the stream, and at the far end of this was the village
where we expected to find those whom we sought.
They saw us first, having a look-out on a high tree
by the edge of the forest ; and as our advanced
guard came trotting into the open, he fired. The
shot echoed far up the hills like an angry shout,
and we could see a sudden stir in the village— men
running out of the houses with guns and swords,
and women and children running, too, poor things !
sick with fear. They fired at us from the vilkge
fence, but had no time to close the gate ere our
sowars were in. Then they escaped in various
ways to the forest and scrub, running like madmen
across the litde bit of open, and firing at us directly
they reached shelter where the cavalry could not
come. Of course, in the open they had no chance,
6
82 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
but in the dense forest they were safe enough.
The village was soon cleared, and then we had
to return. It was no good to wait. The valley
was very narrow, and was commanded from both
its sides, which were very steep and dense with
forest. Beyond the village there was only forest
again. We had done what we could : we haci
inflicted a very severe punishment on them ; it was
no good waiting, so we returned. They fired on
us nearly all the way, hiding in the thick forest,
and perched on high rocks. At one place our
men had to be dismounted to clear a breastwork,
run up to fire at us from. All the forest was full
of voices — voices of men and women and even
children — cursing our guide. They cried his name,
that the spirits of the hills might remember that
it was he who had brought desolation to their
village. Figures started up on pinnacles of cliff,
and cursed him as we rode by. Us they did not
curse ; it was our guide.
And so after some trouble we got back. That
band never attacked us again.
As we were dismounting, my friend put his hand
in his pocket, and found the little paper. He took
it out, looked at it, and when his servant came
up to him he gave the paper back with a curious
little smile full of many thoughts. * You see,' he
said, * I am safe. No bullet has hit me.' And the
servant's eyes were dim. He had been very long
WAR 83
with his master, and loved him, as did all who knew
him. * It was the goodness of God,' he said — ' the
great goodness of God. Will not the sahib keep
the paper?' But the sahib would not. 'You may
need it as well as I. Who can tell in this war ?'
And he returned it.
And the paper ? It was a prayer — a prayer used
by the Roman Catholic Church, printed on a sheet
of paper. At the top was a red cross. The
paper was old and worn, creased at the edges ; it
had evidently been much used, much read. Such
was the charm that kept the soldier from danger.
The nights were cold then, when the sun had
set, and after dinner we used to have a camp-fire
built of wood from the forest, to sit round for a
time and talk before turning in. The native officers
of the cavalry would come and sit with us, and
one or two of the Burmans, too. We were a very
mixed assembly. I remember one night very
well — I think it must have been the very night
after the fight at Laka, and we were all of us round
the fire. I remember there was a half-moon bendinor
towards the west, throwing tender lights upon the
hills, and turning into a silver gauze the light white
mist that lay upon the rice-fields. Opposite to us,
across the little river, a ridge of hill ran down into
the water that bent round its foot. The ridge
was covered with forest, very black, with silver
edges on the sky-line. It was out of range for
6—2
84 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
a Burmese flint-gun, or we should not have camped
so near it. On all the other sides the fields
stretched away till they ended in the forest that
gloomed beyond. I was talking to the governor's
son (our guide of the fight at Laka) of the prospects
of the future, and of the intentions of the Prince
of Wuntho, in whose country Laka lay. I re:
marked to him how the Burmans of Wuntho
seemed to hate him, of how they had cursed him
from the hills, and he admitted that it was true.
'All except my friends,' he said, 'hate me. And
yet what have I done ? I had to help my father
to get back his governorship. They forget that
they attacked us first.'
He went on to tell me of how every day he was
threatened, of how he was sure they would murder
him some time, because he had joined us. ' They
are sure to kill me some time,' he said. He seemed
sad and depressed, not afraid.
So we talked on, and I asked him about charms.
' Are there not charms that will prevent you being
hurt if you are hit, and that will not allow a sword
to cut you ? We hear of invulnerable men. There
were the Immortals of the King's Guard, for
instance.'
And he said, yes, there were charms, but no
one believed in them except the villagers. He did
not, nor did men of education. Of course, the
ignorant people believed in them. There were
WAR 85
several sorts of charms. You could be tattooed
with certain mystic letters that were said to insure
you against being hit, and there were certain
medicines you could drink. There were also
charms made out of stone, such as a little tortoise
he had once seen that was said to protect its
wearer. There were mysterious writings on palm-
leaves. There were men, he said vaguely, who
knew how to make these things. For himself, he
did not believe in them.
I tried to learn from him then, and I have tried
from others since, whether these charms have any
connection with Buddhism. I cannot find that they
have. They are never in the form of images of the
Buddha, or of extracts from the sacred writings.
There is not, so far as I can make out, any religious
significance in these charms ; mostly they are simply
mysterious. I never heard that the people connect
them with their religion. Indeed, all forms of
enchantment and of charms are most strictly
prohibited. One of the vows that monks take is
never to have any dealings with charms or with the
supernatural, and so Buddhism cannot even give
such little assistance to its believers as to furnish
them with charms. If they have charms, it is
against their faith ; it is a falling away from the
purity of their teachings ; it is simply the innate
yearning of man to the supernatural, to the
mysterious. Man's passions are very strong, and if
86 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
he must fight, he must also have a charm to protect
him in fight. If his religion cannot give it him,
he must find it elsewhere. You see that, as the
teachings of the Buddha have never been able to be
twisted so as to permit war directly, neither have
they been able to assist indirectly by furnishing
charms, by making the fighter bullet-proof. And I
thought then of the little prayer and the cross that
were so certain a defence against hurt.
We talked for a long time in the waning moon-
light by the ruddy fire, and at last we broke up to
go to bed. As we rose a voice called to us across
the water from the little promontory. In the still
night every word was as clear as the note of a
gong.
'Sleep well,' it cried — 'sleep well — sle-e-ep
we-l-L'
We all stood astonished — those who did not know
Burmese wondering at the voice ; those who did,
wondering at the meaning. The sentries peered
keenly towards the sound.
' Sleep well,' the voice cried again ; 'eat well. It
will not be for long. Sleep well while you may.'
And then, after a pause, it called the governor's
son's name, and ' Traitor, traitor !' till the hills were
full of sound.
The Burman turned away.
'You see,' he said, 'how they hate me. What
would be the good of charms ?'
WAR 87
The voice was quiet, and the camp sank into still-
ness, and ere long the moon set, and it was quite
dark.
He was a brave man, and, indeed, there are many-
brave men amongst the Burmese. They kill
leopards with sticks and stones very often, and
even tigers. They take their frail little canoes
across the Irrawaddy in flood in a most daring
way. They in no way want for physical courage,
but they have never made a cult of bravery ; it has
never been a necessity to them ; it has never
occurred to them that it is the prime virtue of a
man. You will hear them confess in the calmest
way, ' I was afraid.' We would not do that ; we
should be much more afraid to say it. And the
teaching of Buddhism is all in favour of this. No-
where is courage — I mean aggressive courage —
praised. No soldier could be a fervent Buddhist ;
no nation of Buddhists could be good soldiers ; for
not only does Buddhism not inculcate bravery, but
it does not inculcate obedience. Each man is the
ruler of his life, but the very essence of good fighting
is discipline, and discipline, subjection, is unknown to
Buddhism. Therefore the inherent courag^e of the
Burmans could have no assistance from their faith in
any way, but the very contrary : it fought against
them.
There is no flexibility in Buddhism. It is a law,
and nothing can change it. Laws are for ever and for
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
ever, and there are no exceptions to them. The law
of the Buddha is against war — war of any kind at all
— and there can be no exception. And so every
Burman who fought against us knew that he was
sinning. He did it with his eyes open ; he could
never imagine any exception in his favour. Never,
could he in his bivouac look at the stars, and imagine
that any power looked down in approbation of his
deeds. No one fought for him. Our bayonets and
lances were no keys to open to him the gates of
paradise ; no monks could come and close his dying
eyes with promises of rewards to come. He was
sinning, and he must suffer long and terribly for this
breach of the laws of rio^hteousness.
If such be the faith of the people, and if they
believe their faith, it is a terrible handicap to them
in any fight : it delivers them bound into the hands
of the enemy. And such is Buddhism.
But it must never be forgotten that, if this faith
does not assist the believer in defence, neither does
it in offence. What is so terrible as a war of
religion ? There can never be a war of Buddhism.
No ravished country has ever borne witness to the
prowess of the followers of the Buddha ; no murdered
men have poured out their blood on their hearth-
stones, killed in his name ; no ruined women have
cursed his name to high Heaven. He and his faith
are clean of the stain of blood. He was the preacher
of the Great Peace, of love, of charity, of compas-
WAR 89
sion, and so clear is his teaching that it can never be
misunderstood. Wars of invasion the Burmese have
waged, that is true, in Siam, in Assam, and in Pegu.
They are but men, and men will fight. If they were
perfect in their faith the race would have died out
long ago. They have fought, but they have never
fought in the name of their faith. They have never
been able to prostitute its teachings to their own
wants. Whatever the Burmans have done, they
have kept their faith pure. When they have
offended against the laws of the Buddha they have
done so openly. Their souls are guiltless of
hypocrisy, for whatever that may avail them ; they
have known the difference between good and evil,
even if they have not always followed the good.
[9o]
CHAPTER VII.
GOVERNMENT.
* Fire, water, storms, robbers, rulers — these are the five great
evils.' — Burmese saying.
It would be difficult, I think, to imagine anything
worse than the government of Upper Burma in its
later days. I mean by ' government ' the king and
his counsellors and the greater officials of the empire.
The management of foreign affairs, of the army, the
suppression of greater crimes, the care of the means
of communication, all those duties which fall to the
central government, were badly done, if done at all.
It must be remembered that there was one difficulty
in the way — the absence of any noble or leisured
class to be entrusted with the greater offices. As I
have shown in another chapter, there was no one
between the king and the villager — no noble, no
landowner, no wealthy or educated class at all.
The king had to seek for his ministers among the
ordinary people, consequently the men who were
called upon to fill great offices of state were as often
GOVERNMENT
gt
as not men who had no experience beyond the
narrow limits of a village.
The breadth of view, the knowledge of other
countries, of other thoughts, that comes to those who
have wealth and leisure, were wanting to these
ministers of the king. Natural capacity many of
them had, but that is not of much value until it is
cultivated. You cannot learn in the narrow pre-
cincts of a village the knowledge necessary to the
management of great affairs ; and therefore in affairs
of state this want of any noble or leisured class was
a very serious loss to the government of Burma.
It had great and countervailing advantages, of which
I will speak when I come to local government, but
that it was a heavy loss as far as the central govern-
ment goes no one can doubt. There was none of
that check upon the power of the king which a power-
ful nobility will give ; there was no trained talent
at his disposal. The king remained absolutely
supreme, with no one near his throne, and the
ministers were mere puppets, here to-day and gone
to-morrow. They lived by the breath of the king
and court, and when they lost favour there was
none to help them. They had no faction behind
them to uphold them against the king. It can
easily be understood how disastrous all this was to
any form of good government. All these ministers
and governors were corrupt; there was corruption
to the core.
92 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
When it is understood that hardly any official was
paid, and that those who were paid were insufficiently
paid, and had unlimited power, there will be no diffi-
culty in seeing the reason. In circumstances like
this all people would be corrupt. The only securities
against bribery and abuse of power are adequate
pay, restricted authority, and great publicity. None
of these obtained in Burma any more than in the
Europe of five hundred years ago, and the result
was the same in both. The central government
consisted of the king, who had no limit at all to his
power, and the council of ministers, whose only
check was the king. The executive and judicial
were all the same : there was no appeal from one to
the other. The only appeal from the ministers was
to the king, and as the king shut himself up in his
palace, and was practically inaccessible to all but
high officials, the worthlessness of this appeal is
evident. Outside Mandalay the country was
governed by wtms or governors. These were
appointed by the king, or by the council, or by
both, and they obtained their position by bribery.
Their tenure was exceedingly insecure, as any man
who came and gave a bigger bribe was likely to
obtain the former governor's dismissal and his own
appointment. Consequently the usual tenure of
office of a governor was a year. Often there were
half a dozen governors in a year ; sometimes a man
with strong influence managed to retain his position
GOVERNMENT 93
for some years. From the orders of the governor
there was an appeal to the council. This was in
some matters useful, but in others not so. If a
governor sentenced a man to death — all governors
had power of life and death — he would be executed
long before an appeal could reach the council.
Practically no check was possible by the palace over
distant governors, and they did as they liked. Any-
thing more disastrous and fatal to any kind of good
government than this it is impossible to imagine.
The governors did what they considered right in
their own eyes, and made as much money as they
could, while they could. They collected the taxes
and as much more as they could get ; they
administered the laws of Manu in civil and criminal
affairs, except when tempted to deviate therefrom
by good reasons ; they carried out orders received
from Mandalay, when these orders fell in with their
own desires, or when they considered that disobedi-
ence might be dangerous. It is a Burmese proverb
that officials are one of the five great enemies of
mankind, and there was, I think (at all events in the
latter days of the kingdom), good reason to remember
it. And yet these officials were not bad men in
themselves ; on the contrary, many of them were
men of good purpose, of natural honesty, of right
principles. In a well-organized system they would
have done well, but the system was rotten to the
core.
94 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
It may be asked why the Burmese people
remained quiet under such a rule as this ; why
they did not rise and destroy it, raising a new one
in its place ; how it was that such a state of corrup-
tion lasted for a year, let alone for many years.
And the answer is this : However bad the
government may have been, it had the qualities
of its defects. If it did not do much to help the
people, it did little to hinder them. To a great
extent it left them alone to manage their own affairs
in their own way. Burma in those days was like a
great untended garden, full of weeds, full of flowers
too, each plant striving after its own way, gradually
evolvinor into higher forms. Now sometimes it
seems to me to be like an old Dutch garden, with
the paths very straight, very clean swept, with the
trees clipped into curious shapes of bird and beast,
tortured out of all knowledge, and many of the
flowers mown down. The Burmese government
left its people alone ; that was one great virtue.
And, again, any government, however good, how-
ever bad, is but a small factor in the life of a
people ; it comes far below many other things
in importance. A short rainfall for a year is more
disastrous than a mad king ; a plague is worse
than fifty grasping governors ; social rottenness is
incomparably more dangerous than the rottenest
government.
And in Burma it was only the supreme govern-
GOVERNMENT 95
ment, the high officials, that were very bad. It was
only the management of state affairs that was feeble
and corrupt ; all the rest was very good. The
land laws, the self-government, the social condition
of the people, were admirable. It was so good that
the rotten central government made but little differ-
ence to the people, and it would probably have
lasted for a long while if not attacked from outside.
A greater power came and upset the government of
the king, and established itself in his place ; and I
may here say that the idea that the feebleness or
wrong-doing of the Burmese government was the
cause of the downfall is a mistake. If the Burmese
government had been the best that ever existed, the
annexation would have happened just the same. It
was a political necessity for us.
The central government of a country is, as I have
said, not a matter of much importance. It has very
little influence in the evolution of the soul of a
people. It is always a great deal worse than the
people themselves — a hundred years behind them
in civilization, a thousand years behind them in
morality. Men will do in the name of gov^ernment
acts which, if performed in a private capacity, would
cover them with shame before men, and would land
them in a gaol or worse. The name of govern-
ment is a cloak for the worst passions of manhood.
It is not an interesting study, the government of
mankind.
96 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
A government is no part of the soul of the people,
but is a mere excrescence ; and so I have but little to
say about this of Burma, beyond this curious fact —
that religion had no part in it. Surely this is a very
remarkable thing, that a religion having the hold
upon its followers that Buddhism has upon the Bur-
mese has never attempted to grasp the supreme
authority and use it to its ends.
It is not quite an explanation to say that Buddhism
is not concerned with such things ; that its very
spirit is against the assumption of any worldly power
and authority ; that it is a negation of the value ol
these things. Something of this sort might be said
of other religions, and yet they have all striven to
use the temporal power.
I do not know what the explanation is unless it be
that the Burmese believe their religion and other
people do not. However that may be, there is no
doubt of the fact. Religion had nothing whatever
— absolutely nothing in any way at all — to do with
government. There are no exceptions. What has
led people to think sometimes that there were excep-
tions is the fact that the king confirmed the That-
hanabaing — the head of the community of monks —
after he had been elected by his fellow-monks. The
reason of this was as follows : All ecclesiastical
matters — I use the word ' ecclesiastical ' because I
can find no other — were outside the jurisdiction of
civil limits. By ' ecclesiastical ' I mean such matters
GOVERNMENT 97
as referred to the ownership and habitation of monas-
teries, the building of pagodas and places of prayer,
the discipline of the monkhood. Such questions
were decided by ecclesiastical courts under the That-
hanabaing.
Now, it was necessary sometimes, as may be
understood, to enforce these decrees, and for that
reason to apply to civil power. Therefore there
must be a head of the monks acknowledged by the
civil power as head, to make such applications as
might be necessary in this, and perhaps some other
such circumstances.
It became, therefore, the custom for the king
to acknowledge by order the elect of the monks
as Thathanabaing for all such purposes. That was
all. The king did not appoint him at all.
Any such Idea as a monk Interfering In the affairs
of state, or expressing an opinion on war or law or
finance, would appear to the Burmese a negation of
their faith. They were never led away by the Idea
that good might come of such interference. This
terrible snare has never caught their feet. They
hold that a man's first duty is to his own soul.
Never think that you can do good to others at the
same time as you Injure yourself, and the greatest
good for your own heart is to learn that beyond all
this turmoil and fret there is the Great Peace — so
great that we can hardly understand it, and to reach
it you must fit yourself ior It. The monk Is he who
7
98 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
is attempting to reach it, and he knows that he cannot
do that by attempting to rule his fellow-man ; that is
probably the very, worst thing he could do. And
therefore the monkhood, powerful as they were, left
all politics alone. I have never been able to hear of
a single instance in which they even expressed an
opinion either as a body or as individuals on any
state matter.
It is true that, if a governor oppressed his people,
the monks would remonstrate with him, or even, in
the last extremity, with the king ; they would plead
with the king for clemency to conquered peoples, to
rebels, to criminals ; their voice was always on the
side of mercy. As far as urging the greatest of all
virtues upon governors and rulers alike, they may
be said to have interfered with politics ; but this is
not what is usually understood by religion interfering
in things of state. It seems to me we usually mean
the reverse of this, for we are of late beginning to
regard it with horror. The Burmese have always
done so. They would think it a denial of all
religion.
And so the only things worth noting about the
government of the Burmese were its exceeding
badness, and its disconnection with religion. That
it would have been a much stronger government
had it been able to enlist on its side all the power
of the monkhood, none can doubt. It might even
have been a better government ; of that I am
GOVERNMENT 99
not sure. But that such a union would have meant
the utter destruction of the religion, the debasing
of the very soul of the people, no one who has
tried to understand that soul can doubt. And a
soul is worth very many governments.
But when you left the central government, and
came down to the management of local affairs,
there was a great change. You came straight down
from the king and governor to the village and its
headman. There were no lords, no squires, nor
ecclesiastical power wielding authority over the
people.
Each village was to a very great extent a self-
governing community composed of men free in
every way. The whole country was divided into
villages, sometimes containing one or two hamlets
at a little distance from each other — offshoots from
the parent stem. The towns, too, were divided
into quarters, and each quarter had its headman.
These men held their appointment - orders from
the king as a matter of form, but they were chosen
by their fellow-villagers as a matter of fact. Partly
this headship was hereditary, not from father to
son, but it might be from brother to brother, and
so on. It was not usually a very coveted appoint-
ment, for the responsibility and trouble were con-
siderable, and the pay small. It was 10 per cent,
on the tax collections. And with this official as
their head, the villagers managed nearly all their
7—2
loo THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
affairs.. Their taxes, for instance, they assessed
and collected themselves. The governor merely
informed the headman that he was to produce ten
rupees per house from his village. The villagers
then appointed assessors from among themselves,
and decided how much each household should pay.
Thus a coolie might pay but four rupees, and' a
rice - merchant as much as fifty or sixty. The
assessment was levied according to the means of
the villagers. So well was this done, that com-
plaints against the decisions of the assessors were
almost unknown — I might, I think, safely say were
absolutely unknown. The assessment was made
publicly, and each man was heard in his own
defence before being assessed. Then the money
was collected. If by any chance, such as death,
any family could not pay, the deficiency was made
good by the other villagers in proportion. When
the money was got in it was paid to the governor.
Crime such as gang-robbery, murder, and so on,
had to be reported to the governor, and he arrested
the criminals if he felt inclined, and knew who
they were, and was able to do it. Generally
something was in the way, and it could not be
done. All lesser crime was dealt with in the
village itself, not only dealt with when it occurred,
but to a great extent prevented from occurring.
You see, in a village anyone knows everyone,
and detection is usually easy. If a man became
GOVERNMENT ioi
a nuisance to a village, he was expelled. I have
often heard old Burmans talking about this, and
comparing these times with those. In those times
all crimes were unpunished, and there was but
little petty crime. Now all big criminals are relent-
lessly hunted down by the police ; and the inevitable
weakening of the village system has led to a large
increase of petty crime, and certain breaches of
morality and good conduct. I remember talking
to a man not long ago — a man who had been a
headman in the king's time, but was not so now.
We were chatting of various subjects, and he told
me he had no children ; they were dead.
' When were you married ?' I asked, just for
something to say, and he said when he was thirty-
two.
' Isn't that rather old to be just married ?' I
asked. ' I thought you Burmans often married at
eighteen and twenty. What made you wait so
long ?'
And he told me that in his village men were
not allowed to marry till they were about thirty.
' Great harm comes,' he said, ' of allowing boys
and girls to make foolish marriages when they
are too young. It was never allowed in my
village.'
' And if a young man fell in love with a girl ?'
I asked.
• He was told to leave her alone.'
I02 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
' And if he didn't ?'
' If he didn't, he was put in the stocks for one
day or two days, and if that was no good, he was
banished from the village.'
A monk complained to me of the bad habits of
the young men in villages. ' Could government
do nothing ?' he asked. They used shameful words,
and they would shout as they passed his monastery,
and disturb the lads at their lessons and the girls
at the well. They were not well-behaved. In the
Burmese time they would have been punished for
all this— made to draw so many buckets of water
for the school-gardens, or do some road-making,
or even be put in the stocks. Now the headman
was afraid to do anything, for fear of the great
government. It was very bad for the young men,
he said.
All villages were not alike, of course, in their
enforcement of good manners and good morals,
but, still, in every village they were enforced more
or less. The opinion of the people was very
decided, and made itself felt, and the influence
of the monastery without the gate was strong upon
the people.
Yet the monks never interfered with villao^e
affairs. As they abstained from state govern-
ment, so they did from local government. You
never could imagine a Buddhist monk being a
magistrate for his village, taking any part at all
GOVERNMENT 103
In municipal affairs. The same reasons that held
them from affairs of the state held them from
affairs of the commune. I need not repeat them.
The monastery was outside the village, and the
monk outside the community. I do not think he
was ever consulted about any village matters. I
know that, though I have many and many a time
asked monks for their opinion to aid me in deciding
little village disputes, I have never got an answer
out of them. ' These are not our affairs,' they will
answer always. ' Go to the people ; they will tell
you what you want.' Their influence is by ex-
ample and precept, by teaching the laws of the
great teacher, by living a life blameless before
men, by preparing their souls for rest. It Is a
general influence, never a particular one. If anyone
came to the monk for counsel, the monk would
only repeat to him the sacred teaching, and leave
him to apply it.
So each village managed its own affairs, un-
troubled by squire or priest, very little troubled by
the state. That within their little means they did
it well, no one can doubt. They taxed themselves
without friction, they built their own monastery
schools by voluntary effort, they maintained a very
high, a very simple, code of morals, entirely of
their own initiative.
All this has passed, or Is passing away. The
king has gone to a banishment far across the sea.
I04 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
the ministers are either banished or powerless for
good or evil. It will never rise again, this govern-
ment of the king, which was so bad in all it did,
and only good in what it left alone. It will never
rise again. The people are now part of the British
Empire, subjects of the Queen. What may be in
store for them in the far future no one can tell,
only we may be sure that the past can return no
more. And the local government is passing away,
too. It cannot exist with a strong government
such as ours. For good or for evil, in a few years
it, too, will be gone.
But, after all, these are but forms ; the soul is
far within. In the soul there will be no change.
No one can imagine even in the far future any
monk of the Buddha desiring temporal power, or
interfering in any way with the government of
the people. That is why I have written this chapter,
to show how Buddhism holds itself towards the
government. With us, we are accustomed to
ecclesiastics trying to manage affairs of state, or
attempting to grasp the secular power. It is in
accordance with our ideals that they should do
so. Our religious phraseology is full of such terms
as lord and king and ruler and servant. Buddhism
knows nothing of any of them. In our religion
we are subject to the authority of deacons and
.priests and bishops and archbishops, and so on up
to the Almighty Himself. But in Buddhism every
GOVERNMENT 105
man is free — free, subject to the inevitable laws
of righteousness. There is no hierarchy in Buddhism :
it is a religion of absolute freedom. No one can
damn you except yourself; no one can save you
except yourself. Governments cannot do it, and
therefore it would be useless to try and capture
the reins of government, even if you did not destroy
your own soul in so doing. Buddhism does not
believe that you can save a man by force.
And as Buddhism was, so it is, so it will remain.
By its very nature it abhors all semblance of
authority. It has proved that, under temptation
such as no other religion has felt, and resisted ; it
is a religion of each man's own soul, not of govern-
ments and powers.
[ io6 ]
CHAPTER VIII.
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT.
' Overcome anger by kindness, evil by good.'
Dammapada.
Not very many years ago an officer in Rangoon
lost some currency notes. He had placed them
upon his table overnight, and in the morning
they were gone. The amount was not large. It
was, if I remember rightly, thirty rupees ; but the
loss annoyed him, and as all search and inquiry
proved futile, he put the matter in the hands of
the police.
And before long — the very next day — the posses-
sion of the notes was traced to the officer's Burman
servant, who looked after his clothes and attended
on him at table. The boy was caught in the act
of trying to change one of the notes. He was
arrested, and he confessed. He was very hard up,
he said, and his sister had written asking him to
help her. He could not do so, and he was troubling
himself about the matter early that morning while
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 107-
tidying the room, and he saw the notes on the
table, and so he took them. It was a sudden
temptation, and he fell. When the officer learnt
all this, he would, I think, have withdrawn from
the prosecution and forgiven the boy ; but it was
too late. In our English law theft is not com-
poundable. A complaint of theft once made must
be proved or disproved ; the accused must be tried
before a magistrate. There is no alternative. So
the lad— he was only a lad — was sent up before
the magistrate, and he again pleaded guilty, and
his master asked that the punishment might be
light. The boy, he said, was an honest boy, and had
yielded to a sudden temptation. He, the master,
had no desire to press the charge, but the reverse.
He would never have come to court at all if he
could have withdrawn from the charge. Therefore
he asked that the magistrate would consider all
this, and be lenient.
But the magistrate did not see matters in the
same light at all. He would consider his judg-
ment, and deliver it later on.
When he came into court again and read the
judgment he had prepared, he said that he was
unable to treat the case leniently. There were
many such cases, he said. It was becoming quite
common for servants to steal their employers'
things, and they generally escaped. It was a
serious matter, and he felt himself obliged to make
io8 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
an example of such as were convicted, to be a
warning to others. So the boy was sentenced to
six months' rigorous imprisonment ; and his master
went home, and before long had forgotten all
about it.
But one day, as he was sitting in his veranda
reading before breakfast, a lad came quickly up
the stairs and into the veranda, and knelt down
before him. It was the servant. As soon as he
was released from gaol, he went straight to his
old master, straight to the veranda where he was
sure he would be sitting at that hour, and begged
to be taken back again into his service. He was
quite pleased, and sure that his master would be
equally pleased, at seeing him again, and he took
it almost as a matter of course that he would be
reinstated.
But the master doubted.
'How can I take you back again.'*' he said.
' You have been in gaol.'
' But,' said the boy, ' I did very well in gaol.
I became a warder with a cap white on one side
and yellow on the other. Let the thakin ask.'
Still the officer doubted.
' I cannot take you back,' he repeated. * You
stole my money, and you have been in prison. I
could not have you as a servant again.'
'Yes,' admitted the boy, *I stole the thakin's
money, but I have been in prison for it a long
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 109
time — six months. Surely that is all forgotten
now. I stole ; I have been in gaol — that is the
end of it.'
' No,' answered the master, ' unfortunately, your
having been in gaol only makes matters much
worse. I could forgive the theft, but the being
in gaol — how can I forgive that .'*'
And the boy could not understand.
' If I have stolen, I have been in gaol for it.
That is wiped out now,' he said again and again,
till at last he went away in sore trouble of mind,
for he could not understand his master, nor could
his master understand him.
You see, each had his own idea of what
was law, and what was justice, and what was
punishment. To the Burman all these words had
one set of meanings ; to the Englishman they had
another, a very different one. And each of them
took his ideas from his religion. To all men the
law here on earth is but a reflection of the heavenly
law ; the judge is the representative of his god.
The justice of the court should be as the justice
of heaven. Many nations have imagined their
law to be heaven-given, to be inspired with the
very breath of the Creator of the world. Other
nations have derived their laws elsewhere. But
this is of little account, for to the one, as to the
other, the laws are a reflection of the religion.
And therefore on a man's religion depends all
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
his views of law and justice, his understanding of
the word 'punishment,' his idea of how sin should
be treated. And it was because of their different
religions, because their religions differed so greatly
on these points as to be almost opposed, that the
English officer and his Burman servant failed to
understand each other. '
For to the Englishman punishment was a degra-""
dation. It seemed to him far more disgraceful that
his servant should have been in gaol than that he
should have committed theft. The theft he was
ready to forgive, the punishment he could not.
Punishment to him meant revenge. It is the
revenge of an outraged and injured morality. The
sinner had insulted the law, and therefore the law
was to make him suffer. He was to be frightened
into not doing it again. That is the idea. He
was to be afraid of receiving punishment. And
again his punishment was to be useful as a warning
to others. Indeed, the magistrate had especially
increased it with that object in view. He was to
suffer that others might be saved. The idea of
punishment being an atonement hardly enters into
our minds at all. To us it is practically a revenge.
We do not expect people to be the better for it.
We are sure they are the worse. It is a deterrent
for others, not a healing process for the man
himself. We punish A. that B. may be afraid,
and not do likewise. Our thoughts are bent on
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
B., not really on A. at all. As far as he is con-
cerned the process is very similar to pouring boiling
lead into a wound. We do not wish or intend to
improve him, but simply and purely to make him
suffer. After we have dealt with him he is never
fit again for human society. That was in the officer's
thought when he refused to take back his Burmese
servant.
Now see the boy's idea.
Punishment is an atonement, a purifying of the
soul from the stain of sin. That is the only justifi-
cation for, and meaning of, suffering. If a man
breaks the everlasting laws of righteousness and
stains his soul with the stain of sin, he must be
purified, and the only method of purification is
by suffering. Each sin is followed by suffering,
lasting just so long as to cleanse the soul — not a
moment less, or the soul would not be white ; not
a moment more, or it would be useless and cruel.
That is the law of righteousness, the eternal in-
evitable sequence that leads us in the end to
wisdom and peace. And as it is with the greater
laws, so it should, the Buddhist thinks, be with the
lesser laws.
If a man steals, he should have such punishment
and for such a time as will wean his soul from theft,
as will atone for his sin. Just so much. You see,
to him mercy is a falling short of what is necessary,
a leaving of work half done, as if you were to leave
112 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
a garment half washed. Excess of punishment is
mere useless brutality. He recognizes no vicarious
punishment. He cannot understand that A. should
be damned in order to save B. This does not
agree with his scheme of righteousness at all. It
seems as futile to him as the action of washing one
garment twice that another might be clean. Each'
man should atone for his own sin, mzis^ atone for^
his own sin, in order to be freed from it. No one
can help him, or suffer for him. If I have a sore
throat, it would be useless to blister you for it :
that is his idea.
Consider this Burman. He had committed theft.
That he admitted. He was prepared to atone for
it. The magistrate was not content with that, but
made him also atone for other men's sins. He
was twice punished, because other men who escaped
did ill. That was the first thing he could not
understand. And then, when he had atoned both
for his own sin and for that of others, when he
came out of prison, he was looked upon as in a
worse state than if he had never atoned at all. If
he had never been in prison, his master would have
forgiven his theft and taken him back, but now
he would not. The boy was proud of having
atoned in full, very full, measure for his sin ; the
master looked upon the punishment as incon-
ceivably worse than the crime.
So the officer went about and told the story
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 113
of his boy coming back, and expecting to be taken
on again, as a curious instance of the mysterious
working of the Oriental mind, as another example
of the extraordinary way Easterns argue. * Just to
think,' said the officer, ' he was not ashamed of
having been in prison !' And the boy ? Well, he
probably said nothing, but went away and did not
understand, and kept the matter to himself, for
they are very dumb, these people, very long-suffering,
very charitable. You may be sure that he never
railed at the law, or condemned his old master for
harshness.
He would wonder why he was punished because
other people had sinned and escaped. He could
not understand that. It would not occur to him that
sending him to herd with other criminals, that cutting
him off from all the gentle influences of life, from the
green trees and the winds of heaven, from the society
of women, from the example of noble men, from the
teachings of religion, was a curious way to render
him a better man. He would suppose it was
intended to make him better, that he should leave
gaol a better man than when he entered, and he
would take the intention for the deed. Under his
own king things were not much better. It is true
that very few men were imprisoned, fine being the
usual punishment, but still, imprisonment there was,
and so that would not seem to him strange ; and
as to the conduct of his master, he would be content
8
114 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
to leave that unexplained. The Buddhist is content
to leave many things unexplained until he can see
the meaning. He is not fond of theories. If he
does not know, he says so. ' It is beyond me,' he
will say ; ' I do not understand.' He has no theory
of an occidental mind to explain acts of ours of
which he cannot grasp the meaning ; he would '
only not understand.
But the pity of it — think of the pity of it all !
Surely there is nothing more pathetic than this :
that a sinner should not understand the wherefore
of his sentence, that the justice administered to him
should be such as he cannot see the meaning of.
Certain forms of crime are very rife in Burma.
The villages are so scattered, the roads so lonely,
the amount of money habitually carried about so
large, the people so habitually careless, the difficulty
of detection so great, that robbery and kindred
crimes are very common ; and it is more common
in the districts of the delta, long under our rule,
than in the newly-annexed province in the north.
Under like conditions the Burman is probably no
more criminal and no less criminal than other people
in the same state of civilization. Crime is a con-
dition caused by opportunity, not by an inherent
state of mind, except with the very, very few, the
exceptional individuals ; and in Upper Burma there
is, now that the turmoil of the annexation is past,
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 115
very little crime comparatively. There is less
money there, and the village system^ — the control
of the community over the individual — the restrain-
ing influence of public opinion is greater. But
even during the years of trouble, the years from
1885 till 1890, when, in the words of the Burmese
proverb, ' the forest was on fire and the wild-cat
slapped his arm,' there were certain peculiarities
about the criminals that differentiated them from
those of Europe. You would hear of a terrible
crime, a village attacked at night by brigands, a
large robbery of property, one or two villagers
killed, and an old woman tortured for her treasure,
and you would picture the perpetrators as hardened,
brutal criminals, lost to all sense of humanity, tigers
in human shape ; and when you came to arrest
them — if by good luck you did so — you would find
yourself quite mistaken. One, perhaps, or two of
the ringleaders might be such as I have described,
but the others would be far different. They would
be boys or young men led away by the idea of
a frolic, allured by the romance of being a free-lance
for a night, very sorry now, and ready to confess
and do all in their power to atone for their mis-
deeds. Nothing, I think, was more striking than
the universal confession of criminals on their arrest.
Even now, despite the spread of lawyers and notions
of law, in country districts accused men always con-
fess, sometimes even they surrender themselves. I
ii6 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
have known many such cases. Here is one that
happened to myself only the other day.
A man was arrested in another jurisdiction for
cattle theft ; he was tried there and sentenced to
two years' rigorous imprisonment. Shortly after-
wards it was discovered that he was suspected of
being concerned in a robbery in my jurisdiction,
committed before his arrest. He was therefore
transferred to the gaol near my court, and I inquired
into the case, and committed him and four others for
trial before the sessions judge for the robbery, which
he admitted.
Now, it so happened that immediately after I had
passed orders in the case I went out into camp,
leaving the necessary warrants to be signed in my
absence by my junior magistrate, and a mistake
occurred by which the committal-warrant was only
made out for the four. The other man being already
under sentence for two years, it was not considered
necessary to make out a remand-warrant for him.
But, as it happened, he had appealed from his former
sentence and he was acquitted, so a warrant of
release arrived at the gaol, and, in absence of any
other warrant, he was at once released.
Of course, on the mistake being discovered a
fresh warrant was issued, and mounted police were
sent over the country in search of him, without
avail ; he could not be found. But some four days
afterwards, in the late afternoon, as I was sitting
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 117
in my house, just returned from court, my servant
told me a man wanted to see me. He was shown
up into the veranda, and, lo ! it was the very man
I wanted. He had heard, he explained, that I
wanted him, and had come to see me. I reminded
him he was committed to stand his trial for dacoity,
that was why I wanted him. He said that he
thought all that was over, as he was released ; but
I explained to him that the release only applied
to the theft case. And then we walked over half
a mile to court, I in front and he behind, across
the wide plain, and he surrendered to the guard.
He was tried and acquitted on this charge also.
Not, as the sessions judge said later, that he had
any doubt that my friend and the others were
the right men, but because he considered some of
the evidence unsatisfactory, and because the original
confession was withdrawn. So he was released
again, and went hence a free man.
But think of him surrendering himself ! He knew
he had committed the dacoity with which he was
charged : he himself had admitted it to begin with,
and again admitted it freely when he knew he was safe
from further trial. He knew he was liable to very
heavy punishment, and yet he surrendered because
he understood that I wanted him. I confess that I
do not understand it at all, for this is no solitary
instance. The circumstances, truly, were curious, but
the spirit in which the man acted was usual enough.
ii8 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
I have had dacoit leaders with prices on their heads
walk into my camp. It was a common experience
with many officers. The Burmans often act as
children do. Their crimes are the violent, thought-
less crimes of children ; they are as little depraved
by crime as children are. Who are more criminal
than English boys ? and yet they grow up decent, law- .
abiding men. Almost the only confirmed criminals
have been made so by punishment, by that punish-
ment which some consider is intended to uplift
them, but which never does aught but degrade
them. Instead of cleansing the garment, it tears
it, and renders it useless for this life.
It is a very difficult question, this of crime and
punishment. I have not written all this because
I have any suggestion to make to improve it. I
have not written it because I think that the laws
of Manu, which obtained under the Burmese kings,
and their methods of punishment, were any im-
provement on ours. On the contrary, I think they
were much worse. Their laws and their methods
of enforcing the law were those of a very young
people. But, notwithstanding this, there was a spirit
in their laws different from and superior to ours.
I have been trying to see into the soul of this
people whom I love so well, and nothing has struck .
me more than the way they regard crime and
punishment ; nothing has seemed to me more worthy
of note than their ideas of the meaning and end of
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 119
punishment, of Its scope and its limits. It is so
very different from ours. As in our religion, so
in our laws : we believe in mercy at one time and
in vengeance at another. We believe in vicarious
punishment and vicarious salvation ; they believe in
absolute justice — always the same, eternal and un-
changeable as the laws of the stars. We purposely
make punishment degrading ; they think it should
be elevating, that in its purifying power lies its sole
use and justification. We believe in tearing a soiled
garment ; they think it ought to be washed.
Surely these are great differences, surely thoughts
like these, engraven in the hearts of a young people,
will lead, in the great and glorious future that lies
before them, to a conception of justice, to a method
of dealing with crime, very different from what we
know ourselves. They are now very much as we
were sixteen centuries ago, when the Romans ruled
us. Now we are a greater people, our justice is
better, our prisons are better, our morality is incon-
ceivably better, than Imperial Rome ever dreamt
of. And so with these people, when their time
shall come, when they shall have grown out of
childhood into manhood, when they shall have the
wisdom and strength and experience to put in force
the convictions that are in their hearts, it seems
to me that they will bring out of these convictions
something more wonderful than we to-day have
dreamt of.
[ I20 ]
CHAPTER IX.
HAPPINESS.
'The thoughts of his heart, these are the wealth of a man.'
Burmese saying.
As I have said, there was this very remarkable
fact in Burma — that when you left the king, you
dropped at once to the villager. There were no
intermediate classes. There were no nobles, here-
ditary officers, great landowners, wealthy bankers
or merchants.
Then there is no caste ; there are no gilds of
trade, or art, or science. If a man discovered a
method of working silver, say, he never hid it,
but made it common property. It is very curious
how absolutely devoid Burma is of the exclusive-
ness of caste so universal in India, and which
survives to a great extent in Europe. The Burman
is so absolutely enamoured of freedom, that he
cannot abide the bonds which caste demands.
He will not bind himself with other men for a
HAPPINESS
121
slight temporal advantage ; he does not consider
it worth the trouble. He prefers remaining free and
poor to being bound and rich. Nothing is further
from him than the feeling of exclusiveness. He
abominates secrecy, mystery. His religion, his
women, himself, are free ; there are no dark places
in his life where the light cannot come. He is
ready that everything should be known, that all
men should be his brothers.
And so all the people are on the same level.
Richer and poorer there are, of course, but there
are no very rich ; there is none so poor that he
cannot get plenty to eat and drink. All eat much
the same food, all dress much alike. The amuse-
ments of all are the same, for entertainments are
always free. So the Burman does not care to
be rich. It is not in his nature to desire wealth,
it is not in his nature to care to keep it when it
comes to him. Beyond a sufficiency for his daily
needs money has not much value. He does not
care to add field to field or coin to coin ; the mere
fact that he has money causes him no pleasure.
Money is worth to him what it will buy. With
us, when we have made a little money we keep
it to be a nest-egg to make more from. Not so
a Burman : he will spend it. And after his own
litde wants are satisfied, after he has bought himself
a new silk, after he has given his wife a gold
bangle, after he has called all his village together
122 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
and entertained them with a dramatic entertain-
ment — sometimes even before all this — he will
spend the rest on charity.
He will build a pagoda to the honour of the
great teacher, where men may go to meditate on
the great laws of existence. He will build a
monastery school where the village lads are taught,
and where each villager retires some time in his
life to learn the great wisdom. He will dig a
well or build a bridge, or make a rest-house. And
if the sum be very small indeed, then he will build,
perhaps, a little house — a tiny little house — to hold
two or three jars of water for travellers to drink.
And he will keep the jars full of water, and put
a little cocoanut-shell to act as cup.
The amount spent thus every year in charity is
enormous. The country is full of pagodas ; you
see them on every peak, on every ridge along the
river. They stand there as do the castles of the
robber barons on the Rhine, only with what another
meaning ! Near villages and towns there are
clusters of them, great and small. The great pagoda
in Rangoon is as tall as St. Paul's ; I have seen
many a one not three feet high — the offering of
some poor old man to the Great Name, and every-
where there are monasteries. Every village has
one, at least ; most have two or three. A large
village will have many. More would be built if
there was anyone to live in them, so anxious is
HAPPINESS 123
each man to do something for the monks. As it
is, more are built than there is actual need for.
And there are rest-houses everywhere. Far away
in the dense forests by the mountain-side you will
find them, built in some little hollow by the road-
side by someone who remembered his fellow-
traveller. You cannot go five miles along any
road without finding them. In villages they can
be counted by tens, in towns by fifties. There
are far more than are required.
And in Burmese times such roads and bridges
as were made were made in the same way by
private charity. Nowadays, the British Govern-
ment takes that in hand, and consequently there
is probably more money for rest-house building
than is required. As time goes on, the charity
will flow into other lines, no doubt, in addition.
They will build and endow hospitals, they will
devote money to higher education, they will spend
money in many ways, not in what we usually call
charity, for that they already do, nor in missions,
as whatever missions they may send out will cost
nothing. Holy men are those vowed to extreme
poverty. But as their civilization {their civilization,
not any imposed from outside) progresses, they
will find out new wants for the rich to supply, and
they will supply them. That is a mere question
of material progress.
The inclination to charity is very strong. The
124 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
Burmans give in charity far more in proportion to
their wealth than any other people. It is extra-
ordinary how much they give, and you must re-
member that all of this is quite voluntary. With,
I think, two or three exceptions, such as gilding
the Shwe Dagon pagoda, collections are never made
for any purpose. There is no committee of appeal,
no organized collection. It is all given straight from
the giver's heart. It is a very marvellous thing.
I remember long ago, shortly after I had come
to Burma, I was staying with a friend in Toungoo,
and I went with him to the house of a Burman
contractor. We had been out riding, and as we
returned my friend said he wished to see the
contractor about some business, and so we rode
to his house. He came out and asked us in, and
we dismounted and went up the stairs into the
veranda, and sat down. It was a little house
built of wood, with three rooms. Behind was a
little kitchen and a stable. The whole may have
cost a thousand rupees. As my friend and the
Burman talked of their business, I observed the
furniture. There was very little ; three or four
chairs, two tables and a big box were all I could
see. Inside, no doubt, were a few beds and more
chairs. While we sat, the wife and daughter came
out and gave us cheroots, and I talked to them
in my very limited Burmese till my friend was
ready. Then we went away.
HAPPINESS
125
That contractor, so my friend told me as we
went home, made probably a profit of six or seven
thousand rupees a year. He spent on himself about
a thousand of this ; the rest went in charity. The
great new monastery school, with the marvellous
carved fa9ade, just to the south of the town, was
his, the new rest-house on the mountain road far
up in the hills was his. He supported many monks,
he gave largely to the gilding of the pagoda. If a
theatrical company came that way, he subscribed
freely. Soon he thought he would retire from
contracting altogether, for he had enough to live
on quietly for the rest of his life.
His action is no exception, but the rule. You
will find that every well-to-do man has built his
pagoda or his monastery, and is called ' school-
builder ' or 'pagoda-builder.' These are the only
titles the Burman knows, and they always are given
most scrupulously. The builder of a bridge, a well,
or a rest-house may also receive the title of ' well-
builder,' and so on, but such titles are rarely used
in common speech. Even the builder of a long
shed for water-jars may call himself after it if he
likes, but it is only big builders who receive any
title from their fellows. But the satisfaction to
the man himself, the knowledge that he has done
a good deed, is much the same, I think.
A Burman's wants are very few, such wants as
money can supply — a little house, a sufficiency of
126 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
plain food, a cotton dress for weekdays, and a silk
one for holidays, and that is nearly all.
You see, they are still a very young people.
Many wants will come, perhaps, later on, but just
now their desires are easily satisfied.
The Burman does not care for a big house, for
there are always the great trees and the open spaces ;
by the village. It is far pleasanter to sit out of
doors than^ indoors. He does not care for books.
He has what is better than many books — the life
of his people all about him, and he has the eyes
to see it and the heart to understand it. He cares
not to see with other men's eyes, but with his own ;
he cares not to read other men's thoughts, but to
think his own, for a love of books only comes to
him who is shut always from the world by ill-
health, by poverty, by circumstance. When we
are poor and miserable, we like to read of those
who are happier. When we are shut in towns,
we love to read of the beauties of the hills. When
we have no love in our hearts, we like to read of
those who have. Few men who think their own
thoughts care much to read the thoughts of others,
for a man's own thoughts are worth more to him
than all the thoughts of all the world besides.
That a man should think, that is a great thing.
Very, very few great readers are great thinkers.
And he who can live his life, what cares he for
reading of the lives of other people ? To have
HAPPINESS 127
loved once is more than to have read all the poets
that ever sang. So a Burman thinks. To see the
moon rise on the river as you float along, while the
boat rocks to and fro and someone talks to you,
is not that better than any tale ?
So a Burman lives his life, and he asks a great
deal from it. He wants fresh air and sunshine,
and the great thoughts that come to you in the
forest. He wants love and companionship, the
voice of friends, the low laugh of women, the delight
of children. He wants his life to be a full one, and
he wants leisure to teach his heart to enjoy all these
things ; for he knows that you must learn to enjoy
yourself, that it does not always come naturally,
that to be happy and good-natured and open-
hearted requires an education. To learn to sympa-
thize with your neighbours, to laugh with them and
cry with them, you must not shut yourself away and
work. His religion tells him that the first of all
gifts is sympathy; it is the first step towards
wisdom, and he holds it true. After that, all shall
be added to you. He believes that happiness is
the first of all things.
We think differendy. We are content with
cheerless days, with an absence of love, of beauty,
of all that is valuable to the heart, if we can but
put away a litde money, if we can enlarge our
business, if we can make a bigger figure ""in the
world. Nay, we go beyond this : we believe that
128 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
work, that drudgery, is a beautiful thing in itself,
that perpetual toil and effort is admirable.
And this we do because we do not know what
to do with our leisure, because we do not know
for what to seek, because we cannot enjoy. And
so we go back to work, to feverish effort, because
we cannot think, and see, and understand. * Work
is a means to leisure,' Aristotle told us long ago,
and leisure, adds the Burman, is needed that you
may compose your own soul. Work, no doubt, is
a necessity, too, but not excess of it.
The necessary thing to a man is not gold, nor
position, nor power, but simply his own soul.
Nothing is worth anything to him compared with
that, for while a man lives, what is the good of all
these things if he have no leisure to enjoy them ?
And when he dies, shall they go down into the void
with him ? No ; but a man's own soul shall go with
and be with him for ever.
You see that a Burman's ideas of this world are
dominated by his religion. His religion says to
him, ' Consider your own soul, that is the main
thing.' His religion says to him, 'The aim of
every man should be happiness.' These are the
fundamental parts of his belief; these he learns
from his childhood : they are born in him. He
looks at all the world by their light. Later on,
when he grows older, his religion says to him,
* And happiness is only to be found by renouncing
HAPPINESS 129
the whole world.' This is a hard teaching. This
comes to him slowly, or all Buddhists would be
monks ; but, meanwhile, if he does but remember
the first two precepts, he is on the right path.
And he does do this. Happiness is the aim
he seeks. Work and power and money are but
the means by which he will arrive at the leisure
to teach his own soul. First the body, then the
spirit ; but with us it is surely first the body, and
then the body again.
He often watches us with surprise. He sees
us work and work and work ; he sees us grow
old quickly, and our minds get weary ; he sees our
sympathies grow very narrow, our ideas bent into
one groove, our whole souls destroyed for a little
money, a little fame, a little promotion, till we go
home, and do not know what to do with ourselves,
because we have no work and no sympathy with
anything ; and at last we die, and take down with
us our souls — souls fit for nothing but to be driven
for ever with a goad behind and a golden fruit
in front.
But do not suppose that the Burmese are idle.
Such a nation of workers was never known. Every
man works, every woman works, every child works.
Life is not an easy thing, but a hard, and there
is a great deal of work to be done. There is not
an idle man or woman in all Burma. The class
of those who live on other men's labour is unknown.
9
I30 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
I do not think the Burman would care for such
a Hfe, for a certain amount of work is good, he
knows. A litde work he Hkes ; a good deal of
work he does, because he is obliged often to do
so to earn even the litde he requires. And that
is the end. He is a free man, never a slave to
other men, nor to himself.
And so I do not think his will ever make what
we call a great nation. He will never try to be
a conqueror of other peoples, either with the sword,
with trade, or with religion. He will never care
to have a great voice in the management of the
world. He does not care to interfere with other
people : he never believes interference can do other
than harm to both sides.
He will never be very rich, very powerful, very
advanced in science, perhaps not even in art, though
I am not sure about that. It may be he will be
very great in literature and art. But, however
that may be, in his own idea his will be always
the greatest nation in the world, because it is
the happiest.
[ 131 ]
CHAPTER X.
THE MONKHOOD — I.
' Let his life be kindness, his conduct righteousness ; then in the
fulness of gladness he will make an end of grief.' — Da?jimapada.
During his lifetime, that long lifetime that remained
to him after he had found the light, Gaudama the
Buddha gathered round him many disciples. They
came to learn from his lips of that truth which he
had found, and they remained near him to practise
that life which alone can lead unto the Great
Peace.
And from time to time, as occasion arose, the
teacher laid down precepts and rules to assist those
who desired to live as he did — precepts and rules
designed to help his disciples in the right way.
Thus there arose about him a brotherhood of those
who were striving to purify their souls, and lead
the higher life, and that brotherhood has lasted
ever since, till you see in it the monkhood of to-day,
for that is all that the monks are — a brotherhood
of men who are trying to live as their great master
9-^
132 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
lived, to- purify their souls from the lust of life, to
travel the road that reaches unto deliverance. Only
that, nothing more.
There is no idea of priesthood about it at all,
for by a priest we understand one who has received
from above some power, who is, as it were, a
representative on earth of God. Priests, to our,
thinking, are those who have delegated to them
some of that authority of which God is the fountain-
head. They can absolve from sin, we think ; they
can accept into the faith ; they can eject from it ;
they can exhort with authority ; they can administer
the sacraments of religion ; they can speed the
parting soul to God ; they can damn the parting
soul to hell. A priest is one who is clothed with
much authority and holiness.
But in Buddhism there is not, there cannot be,
anything of all this. The God who lies far beyond
our ken has delegated His authority to no one.
He works throuo^h everlastinof laws. His will is
manifested by unchangeable sequences. There is
nothing hidden about His laws that requires exposi-
tion by His agents, nor any ceremonies necessary
for acceptance into the faith. Buddhism is a free
religion. No one holds the keys of a man's salva-
tion but himself. Buddhism never dreams that
anyone can save or damn you but yourself, and
so a Buddhist monk is as far away from our ideas
of a priest as can be. Nothing could be more
THE MONKHOOD 133
abhorrent to Buddhism than any claim of authority,
of power, from above, of holiness acquired except
by the earnest effort of a man's own soul.
These monks, who are so common all through
Burma, whose monasteries are outside every village,
who can be seen in every street in the early morning
begging their bread, who educate the whole youth
of the country, are simply men who are striving
after good.
This is a difficult thing for us to understand, for
our minds are bent in another direction. A religion
without a priesthood seems to us an impossibility,
and yet here it is so. The whole idea and thing
of a priesthood would be repugnant to Buddhism.
It is a wonderful thing to contemplate how this
brotherhood has existed all these many centuries,
how it has always gained the respect and admira-
tion of the people, how it has always held in its
hands the education of the children, and yet has
never aspired to sacerdotalism. Think of the
temptation resisted here. The temptation to inter-
fere in government was great, the temptation to
arrogate to themselves priestly powers is far, far
greater. And yet it has been always resisted.
This brotherhood of monks is to-day as it was
twenty-three centuries ago — a community of men
seeking for the truth.
And so, in considering these monks, we must
dismiss from our minds any idea of priesthood.
134 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
any idea of extra human sanctity, of extra human
authority. We must never liken them in any way
to our priests, or even to our friars. I use the
word monk, because it is the nearest of any English
word I can find, but even that is not quite correct.
I have often found this difficulty. I do not like
to use the Burmese terms if I can help it, for this j
reason, that strange terms and names confuse us.
They seem to lift us into another world — a world
of people differing from us, not in habits alone,
but in mind and soul. It is a dividing partition.
It is very difficult to read a book speaking of people
under strange terms, and feel that they are flesh
and blood with us, and therefore I have, if possible,
always used an English word where I can come
anywhere near the meaning, and in this case I
think monk comes closest to what I mean. Hermits
they are not, for they live always in communities
by villages, and they do not seclude themselves
from human intercourse. Priests they are not,
ministers they are not, clergymen they are not ;
mendicants only half describes them, so I use the
word monk as coming nearest to what I wish
to say.
The monks, then, are those who are trying to
follow the teaching of Gaudama the Buddha, to
wean themselves from the world, ' who have turned
their eyes towards heaven, where is the lake in
which all passions shall be washed away.' They
THE MONKHOOD 135
are members of a great community, who are
governed by stringent regulations — the regulations
laid down in the Wini for observance by all monks.
When a man enters the monkhood, he makes four
vows — that he will be pure from lust, from desire
of property, from the taking of any life, from the
assumption of any supernatural powers. Consider
this last, how it disposes once and for all of any
desire a monk may have towards mysticism, for
this is what he is taught :
* No member of our community may ever arrogate
to himself extraordinary gifts or supernatural per-
fection, or through vainglory give himself out to
be a holy man : such, for instance, as to withdraw
into solitary places on pretence of enjoying ecstasies
like the Ariahs, and afterwards to presume to teach
others the way to uncommon spiritual attainments.
Sooner may the lofty palm-tree that has been cut
down become green again, than an elect guilty of
such pride be restored to his holy station. Take
care for yourself that you do not give way to such
an excess.'
Is not this teaching the very reverse of that of
all other peoples and religions ? Can you imagine
the religious teachers of any other religion being
warned to keep themselves free from visions ?
Are not visions and trances, dreams and imagina-
tions, the very proof of holiness ? But here it is
not so. These are vain things, foolish imaginations,
136 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
and he who would lead the pure life must put behind
him all such things as mere dram-drinking of the
soul.
This is a most wonderful thing, a religion that
condemns all mysticisms. It stands alone here
amongst all religions, pure from the tinsel of miracle,
either past, or present, or to come. And yet thi^
people is, like all young nations, given to super-"
stition : its young men dream dreams, its girls see
visions. There are interpreters of dreams, many
of them, soothsayers of all kinds, people who will
give you charms, and foretell events for you. Just
as it was with us not long ago, the mystery, iv/ia^
is beyond the world, exercises a curious fascination
Qver them. Everywhere you will meet with traces
of it, and I have in another chapter told some of
the principal phases of these. But the religion has
kept itself pure. No hysteric visions, no madman's
dreams, no clever conjurer's tricks, have ever shed
a tawdry glory on the monkhood of the Buddha.
Amid all the superstition round about them they
have remained pure, as they have from passion and
desire. Here in the far East, the very home, we
think, of the unnatural and superhuman, the very
cradle of the mysterious and the wonderful, is a
reliofion which condemns it all, and a monkhood
who follow their religion. Does not this out-
miracle any miracle ?
With other faiths it is different : they hold out
THE MONKHOOD 137
to those who follow their tenets and accept their
ministry that in exchange for the worldly things
which their followers renounce they shall receive
other gifts, heavenly ones ; they will be endued
with power from above ; they will have authority
from on high ; they will become the chosen
messengers of God ; they may even in their
trances enter into His heaven, and see Him face
to face.
Buddhism has nothing of all this to offer. A
man must surrender all the world, with no immediate
gain. There is only this : that if he struggle along
in the path of righteousness, he will at length attain
unto the Great Peace.
A monk who dreamed dreams, who said that
the Buddha had appeared to him in a vision, who
announced that he was able to prophesy, would be
not exalted, but expelled. He would be deemed
silly or mad ; think of that — mad — for seeing visions,
not holy at all ! The boys would jeer at him ; he
would be turned out of his monastery.
A monk is he who observes purity and sanity
of life. Hysteric dreams, the childishness of the
mysterious, the insanity of the miraculous, are no
part of that.
And so a monk has to put behind him every-
thing that is called good in this life, and govern
his body and his soul in strict temperance.
He must wear but yellow garments, ample and
138 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
decent, but not beautiful ; he must shave his head ; he
must have none but the most distant intercourse with
women ; he must beg his food daily in the streets ;
he must eat but twice, and then but a certain amount,
and never after noon ; he must take no interest in
worldly affairs ; he must own no property, must
attend no plays or performances ; ' he must eat,
not to satisfy his appetite, but to keep his body
alive ; he must wear clothes, not from vanity, but
from decency ; he must live under a roof, not
because of vainglory, but because the weather
renders it necessary.' All his life is bounded by
the very strictest poverty and purity.
You see that there is no austerity. A monk may
not over-eat, but he must eat enough ; he must not
wear fine clothes, but he must be decent and com-
fortable ; he must not have proud dwellings, but he
should be sheltered from the weather.
There is no self-punishment in Buddhism. Did
not the Buddha prove the futility of this long ago ?
The body must be kept in health, that the soul may
not be hampered. And so the monks live a very
healthy, very temperate life, eating and drinking
just enough to keep the body in good health ; that
is the first thing, that is the very beginning of the
pure life.
And as he trains his body by careful treatment, so
does he his soul. He must read the sacred books,
he must meditate on the teachings of the great
THE MONKHOOD 139
teacher, he must try by every means in his power
to bring these truths home to himself, not as empty
sayings, but as beliefs that are to be to him the very
essence of all truth. He is not cut off from society.
There are other monks, and there are visitors, men
and women. He may talk to them — he is no recluse ;
but he must not talk too much about worldly matters.
He must be careful of his thoughts, that they do not
lead him into wrong paths. His life is a life of self-
culture.
Being no priest, he has few duties to others to
perform ; he is not called upon to interfere in the
business of others. He does not visit the sick ; he
has no concern with births and marriages and deaths.
On Sunday, and on certain other occasions, he may
read the laws to the people, that is all. Of this I
will speak in another chapter. It does not amount
to a great demand upon his time. He is also the
schoolmaster of the village, but this is aside entirely
from his sacred profession. Certain duties he has,
however. Every morning as the earliest sunlight
comes upon the monastery spires, when the birds
are still calling to the day, and the cool freshness of
the morning still lies along the highways, you will
see from every monastery the little procession come
forth. First, perhaps, there will be two schoolboys
with a gong slung on a bamboo between them, which
they strike now and then. And behind them, in
their yellow robes, their faces cast upon the ground,
I40 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
and the begging-bowls in their hands, follow the
monks. Very slowly they pass along the streets,
amid the girls hurrying to their stalls in the bazaar
with baskets of fruit upon their heads, the house-
wives out to buy their day's requirements, the work-
man going to his work, the children running and
laughing and falling in the dust. Everyone makeSj
room for them as they go in slow and solemn pro-
cession, and from this house and that come forth
women and children with a little rice that they have
risen before daylight to cook, a little curry, a little
fruit, to put into the bowls. Never is there any
money given : a monk may not touch money, and
his wants are very few. Presents of books, and so
on, are made at other times ; but in the morning
only food is given.
The gifts are never acknowledged. The cover of
the bowl is removed, and when the offering has
been put in, it is replaced, and the monk moves on.
And when they have made their accustomed round,
they return, as they went, slowly to the monastery,
their bowls full of food. I do not know that this
food is always eaten by the monks. Frequently in
large towns they are fed by rich men, who send
daily a hot, fresh, well-cooked meal for each monk,
and the collected alms are given to the poor, or to
schoolboys, or to animals. But the begging round
is never neglected, nor is it a form. It is a very
real thing, as anyone who has seen them go knows.
THE MONKHOOD
141
They must beg their food, and they do ; It is part
of the self-discipline that the law says is necessary
to help the soul to humility. And the people give
because it is a good thing to give alms. Even if
they know the monks are fed besides, they will fill
the bowls as the monks pass along. If the monks
do not want it, there are the poor, there are the
schoolboys, sons of the poorest of the people, who
may often be in need of a meal ; and if not, then
there are the birds and the beasts. It is a good
thing to give alms— good for yourself, I mean. So
that this daily procession does good in two ways :
it is good for the monk because he learns humility ;
it is good for the people because they have thereby
offered them a chance of giving a little alms. Even
the poorest may be able to give his spoonful of rice.
All is accepted. Think not a great gift is more
acceptable than a little one. You must judge by
the giver's heart.
At every feast, every rejoicing, the central feature
is presents to the monks. If a man put his son into
a monastery, if he make merry at a stroke of good
fortune, if he wish to celebrate a mark of favour
from government, the principal ceremony of the
feast will be presents to monks. They must be
presents such as the monks can accept ; of course,
that is understood.
Therefore, you see, a man enters a monastery
simply for this: to keep his body in health by
142 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
perfect , moderation and careful conduct, and to
prepare his soul for heaven by meditation. That
is the meaning of it all.
If you see a grove of trees before you on your
ride, mangoes and tamarinds in clusters, with palms
nodding overhead, and great broad-leaved plantains
and flowering shrubs below, you may be sure thai:
there is a monastery, for it is one of the commands'
to the monks of the Buddha to live under the shade
of lofty trees, and this command they always keep.
They are most beautiful, many of these monasteries
great buildings of dark - brown teak, weather-
stained, with two or three roofs one above the
other, and at one end a spire tapering up until
it ends in a gilded ' tee.' Many of the monasteries
are covered with carving along the facades and
up the spires, scroll upon scroll of daintiest design,
quaint groups of figures here and there, and on
the gateways moulded dragons. All the carvings
tell a story taken from the treasure-house of the
nation's infancy, quaint tales of genii and fairy and
wonderful adventure. Never, I think, do the
carvings tell anything of the sacred life or teaching.
The Burmese are not fond, as we are, of carving
and painting scenes from sacred books. Perhaps
they think the subject too holy for the hand of the
craftsman, and so, with, as far as I know, but one
exception in all Burma — a pagoda built by Indian
architects long ago — you will look in vain for any
THE MONKHOOD 143
sacred teaching in the carvings. But they are very
beautiful, and their colour is so good, the deep rich
brown of teak against the light green of the tamarinds,
and the great leaves of the plantains all about.
Within the monastery it will be all bare. However
beautiful the building is without, no relaxation of
his rules is allowed to the monk within. All is
bare : only a few mats, perhaps, here and there on
the plank floor, a hard wooden bed, a box or two
of books.
At one end there will be sure to be the image
of the teacher, wrought in alabaster. These are
always one of three stereotyped designs ; they are
not works of art at all. The wealth of imagination
and desire of beauty that finds its expression in
the carved stories in the facades has no place here
at all. It would be thought a sacrilege to attempt
in any way to alter the time-honoured figures that
have come down to us from long ago.
Over the head of the image there will be a white
umbrella, whence we have derived our haloes, and
perhaps a lotus blossom in an earthen pot in front.
That will be all. There is this very remarkable
fact : of all the great names associated with the
life of the Buddha, you never see any presentment
at all.
The Buddha stands alone. Of Maya his mother,
of Yathodaya his wife, of Rahoula his son, of
his great disciple Thariputra, of his dearest disciple
144 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
and brother Ananda, you see nothing. There
are no saints in Buddhism at all, only the great
teacher, he who saw the light. Surely this is a
curious thing, that from the time of the prince to
now, two thousand four hundred years, no one has
arisen to be worthy of mention of record beside
him. There is only one man holy to Buddhism—^
Gaudama the Buddha.
On one side of the monasteries there will be
many pagodas, tombs of the Buddha. They are
usually solid cones, topped with a gilded ' tee,' and
there are many of them. Each man will build one
in his lifetime if he can. They are always white.
And so there is much colour about a monastery —
the brown of the wood and the white of the pagoda,
and tender green of the trees. The ground is
always kept clean-swept and beaten and neat. And
there is plenty of sound, too — the fairy music of
little bells upon the pagoda-tops when the breeze
moves, the cooing of the pigeons in the eaves, the
voices of the schoolboys. Monastery land is sacred.
No life may be taken there, no loud sounds, no
noisy merriment, no abuse is permitted anywhere
within the fence. Monasteries are places of medita-
tion and peace.
Of course, all monasteries are not great and
beautiful buildings ; many are but huts of bamboo
and straw, but little better than the villager's hut.
Some villages are so poor that they can afford but
. THE MONKHOOD 145
little for their holy men. But always there will be
trees, always the ground will be swept, always the
place will be respected just the same. And as soon
as a good crop gives the village a little money,
it will build a teak monastery, be sure of that.
Monasteries are free to all. Any stranger may
walk into a monastery and receive shelter. The
monks are always hospitable. I have myself lived,
perhaps, a quarter of my life in Burma in monasteries,
or in the rest-houses attached to them. We break
all their laws : we ride and wear boots within the
sacred enclosure ; our servants kill fowls for our
dinners there, where all life is protected ; we treat
these monks, these who are the honoured of the
nation, much in the offhand, unceremonious way
that we treat all Orientals ; we often openly laugh
at their religion. And yet they always receive us ;
they are often even glad to see us and talk to
us. Very, very seldom do you meet with any
return in kind for your contempt of their faith and
habits. I have heard it said sometimes that some
monks stand aloof, that they like to keep to them-
selves. If they should do so, can you wonder.'*
Would any people, not firmly bound by their
religion, put up with it all for a moment } If you
went into a Mahommedan mosque in Delhi with
your boots on, you would probably be killed. Yet
we clump round the Shwe Dagon pagoda at our
ease, and no one interferes. Do not suppose that
10
146 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
it is because the Burman believes less than the
Hindu or Mahommedan. It is because he believes
more, because he is taught that submission and
patience are strong Buddhist virtues, and that a
man's conduct is an affair of his own soul. He
is willing to believe that the Englishman's breaches
of decorum are due to foreign manners, to the
necessities of our life, to ignorance. But even if
he supposed that we did these things out of sheer
wantonness, it would make no difference. If the
foreigner is dead to every feeling of respect, of
courtesy, of sympathy, that is an affair of the
foreigner's own heart. It is not for the monk to
enforce upon strangers the respect and reverence
due to purity, to courage, to the better things.
Each man is responsible for himself, the foreigner
no less than the Burman. If a foreigner have no
respect for what is good, that is his own business.
It can hurt no one but himself if he is blatant,
ignorant, contemptuous. No one is insulted by
it, or requires revenge for it. You might as well
try and insult gravity by jeering at Newton and
his pupils, as injure the laws of righteousness by
jeering at the Buddha or his monks. And so you
will see foreio-ners take all sorts of liberties in
monasteries and pagodas, break every rule wantonly,
and disregard everything the Buddhist holds holy,
and yet very little notice will be taken openly.
Burmans will have their own opinion of you, do
THE MONKHOOD 147
have their own opinion of you, without a doubt ;
but because you are lost to all sense of decency,
that is no reason why the Buddhist monk or layman
should also lower himself by getting angry and
resent it ; and so you may walk into any monastery
or rest-house and act as you think fit, and no one
will interfere with you. Nay, if you even show a
little courtesy to the monks, your hosts, they will
be glad to talk to you and tell you of their lives
and their desires. It is very seldom that a pleasant
word or a jest will not bring the monks into for-
getting all your offences, and talking to you freely
and openly. I have had, I have still, many friends
among the monkhood ; I have been beholden to
them for many kindnesses ; I have found them
always, peasants as they are, courteous and well-
mannered. Nay, there are greater things than
these.
When my dear friend was murdered at the out-
break of the war, wantonly murdered by the soldiers
of a brutal official, and his body drifted down the
river, everyone afraid to bury it, for fear of the
wrath of government, was it not at last tenderly
and lovingly buried by the monks near whose
monastery it floated ashore } Would all people
have done this? Remember, he was one of those
whose army was engaged in subduing the kingdom ;
whose army imprisoned the king, and had killed,
and were killing, many, many hundreds of Burmans.
10 — 2
148 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
'We do not remember such things. All men are
brothers to the dead.' They are brothers to the
living, too. Is there not a great monastery near
Kindat, built by an Englishman as a memorial to
the monk who saved his life at peril of his own at
that same time, who preserved him till help came ?
Can anyone ever tell when the influence of a,
monk has been other than for pity or mercy ?
Surely they believe their religion ? I did not know
how people could believe till I saw them.
Martyrdom— what is martyrdom, what is death,
for your religion, compared to living within its
commands ? Death is easy ; life it is that is difficult.
Men have died for many things : love and hate, and
I eligion and science, for patriotism and avarice, for
self-conceit and sheer vanity, for all sorts of things,
of value and of no value. Death proves nothing.
Even a coward can die well. But a pure life is the
outcome only of the purest religion, of the greatest
belief, of the most magnificent courage. Those
who can live like this can die, too, if need be — have
done so often and often ; that is but a little matter
indeed. No Buddhist would consider that as a very
great thing beside a holy life.
There is another difference between us. We
think a good death hallows an evil life ; no Buddhist
would hear of this for a moment.
The reverence in which a monk — ay, even the
monk to-day who was but an ordinary man yester-
THE MONKHOOD 149
day — Is held by the people is very great. All those
who address him do so kneeling. Even the king
himself was lower than a monk, took a lower
seat than a monk in the palace. He is addressed
as * Lord,' and those who address him are his dis-
ciples. Poor as he is, living on daily charity, without
any power or authority of any kind, the greatest in
the land would dismount and yield the road that he
should pass. Such is the people's reverence for a
holy life. Never was such voluntary homage yielded
to any as to these monks. There is a special
language for them, the ordinary language of life
being too low to be applied to their actions. They
do not sleep or eat or walk as do other men.
It seems strange to us, coming from our land
where poverty is an offence, where the receipt of
alms is a degradation, where the ideal is power, to
see here all this reversed. The monks are the
poorest of the poor, they are dependent on the
people for their daily bread ; for although lands
may be given to a monastery — as a matter of fact,
very few have any at all, and those only a few palm-
trees — they have no power at all, either temporal or
eternal ; they are not very learned, and yet they are
the most honoured of all people. Without any of
the attributes which in our experience gather the
love and honour of mankind, they are honoured
above all men.
The Burman demands from the monk no assist-
150 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
ance in heavenly affairs, no interference in worldly,
only this, that he should live as becomes a follower
of the great teacher. And because he does so live
the Burman reverences him beyond all others. The
king is feared, the wise man admired, perhaps envied,
the rich man is respected, but the monk is honoured
and loved. There is no one beside him in the heart,
of the people. If you would know what a Burman
would be, see what a monk is : that is his ideal. But
it is a very difficult ideal. The Burman is very fond
of life, very full of life, delighting in the joy of exist-
ence, brimming over with vitality, with humour, with
merriment. They are a young people, in the full
flush of early nationhood. To them of all people
the restraints of a monk's life must be terrible and
hard to maintain. And because it is so, because
they all know how hard it is to do right, and
because the monks do right, they honour them, and
they know they deserve honour. Remember that
all these people have been monks themselves at one
time or other ; they know how hard the rules are,
they know how well they are observed. They are
reverencing what they thoroughly understand ; they
have seen the monkhood from the inside ; their
reverence is the outcome of a very real knowledge.
Of the internal management of the monkhood
I have but litde to say. There is the Thathana-
baing, who is the head of the community ; there are
under him Gaing-oks, who each have charge of a
THE MONKHOOD 151
district ; each Gaing-ok has an assistant, * a prop,'
called Gaing-dauk ; and there are the heads of monas-
teries. The Thathanabaing is chosen by the heads
of the monasteries, and appoints his Gaing-oks and
Gaing-dauks. There is no complication about it.
Usually any serious dispute is decided by a court
of three or four heads of monasteries, presided over
by the Gaing-ok. But note this : no monk can be
tried by any ecclesiastical court without his consent.
Each monastery is self-governing ; no monk can be
called to account by any Gaing-ok or Gaing-dauk
unless he consent. The discipline is voluntary
entirely. There are no punishments by law for
disobedience of an ecclesiastical court. A monk
cannot be unfrocked by his fellows.
Therefore, it would seem that there would be
no check over abuses, that monks could do as they
liked, that irregularities could creep in, and that,
in fact, there is nothing to prevent a monastery
becoming a disgrace. This would be a great
mistake. It must never be forgotten that monks
are dependent on their village for everything—
food and clothes, and even the monastery itself.
Do not imagine that the villagers would allow their
monks, their ' great glories,' to become a scandal
to them. The supervision exercised by the people
over their monks is most stringent. As lone as
the monks act as monks should, they are held in
great honour, they are addressed by titles of great
152 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
respect,- they are supplied with all they want within
the rules of the Wini, they are the glory of the
village. But do you think a Burman would render
this homage to a monk whom he could not respect,
who did actions he should not ? A monk is one
who acts as a monk. Directly he breaks his laws,
his holiness is gone. The villagers will have;
none such as he. They will hunt him out of the
village, they will refuse him food, they will make
him a byword, a scorn. I have known this to
happen. If a monk's holiness be suspected, he
must clear himself before a court, or leave that
place quickly, lest worse befall him. It is impossible
to conceive any supervision more close than this
of the people over their monks, and so the breaches
of any law by the monks are very rare — very rare
indeed. You see, for one thing, that a monk never
takes the vows for life. He takes them for six
months, a year, two years, very often for five years ;
then, if he finds the life suit him, he continues. If
he finds that he cannot live up to the standard
required, he is free to go. There is no compulsion
to stay, no stigma on going. As a matter of fact,
very few monks there are but have left the
monastery at one time or another. It is impossible
to over-estimate the value of this safety valve.
What with the certainty of detection and punish-
ment from his people, and the knowledge that he
can leave the monastery if he will at the end of
THE MONKHOOD 153
his time without any reproach, a monk is almost
always able to keep within his rules.
I have had for ten years a considerable ex-
perience of criminal law. I have tried hundreds
of men for all sorts of offences ; I have known of
many hundreds more being tried, and the only cases
where a monk was concerned that I can remember
are these: three times a monk has been connected
in a rebellion, once in a divorce case, once in another
offence. This last case happened just as we annexed
the country, and when our courts were not estab-
lished. He was detected by the villagers, stripped
of his robes, beaten, and hunted out of the place
with every ignominy possible. There is only one
opinion amongst all those who have tried to study
the Buddhist monkhood — that their conduct is
admirable. Do you suppose the people would
reverence it as they do if it were corrupt .'* They
know : they have seen it from the inside. It is
not outside knowledge they have. And when It
is understood that anyone can enter a monastery —
thieves and robbers, murderers and sinners of every
description, can enter, are even urged to enter
monasteries, and try to live the holy life ; and many
of them do, either as a refuge against pursuit,
or because they really repent — it will be conceded
that the discipline of the monks, if obtained in a
different way to elsewhere, is very effective.
The more you study the monkhood, the more
154 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
you see that this community is the outcome of the
very heart of the people. It is a part of the people,
not cut off from them, but of them ; it is recruited
in great numbers from all sorts and conditions of
men. In every village and town — nearly every
man has been a monk at one time or another — it
is honoured alike by all ; it is kept in the straight:
way, not only from the inherent righteousness of'
its teaching, but from the determination of the
people to allow no stain to rest upon what they
consider as their ' great glory.' This whole monk-
hood is founded on freedom. It is held together
not by a strong organization, but by general consent.
There is no mystery about it, there are no dark
places here where the sunlight of inquiry may not
come. The whole business is so simple that the
very children can and do understand it. I shall
have expressed myself very badly if I have not
made it understood how absolutely voluntary this
monkhood is, held together by no everlasting vows,
restrained by no rigid discipline. It is simply the
free outcome of the free beliefs of the people, as
much a part of them as the fruit is of the tree.
You could no more imagine grapes without a vine
than a Buddhist monkhood that did not spring
directly from, and depend entirely on, the people.
It is the higher expression of their life.
In writing this account of the Burmese and their
religion, I have tried always to see with my own
THE MONKHOOD 155
eyes, to write my own thoughts without any
reference to what anyone else may have thought
or written. I have believed that whatever value
may attach to any man's opinions consists in the
fact that they are his opinions, and not a rechauffd
of the thoughts of others, and therefore I have not
even referred to, or quoted from, any other writer,
preferring to write only what I have myself seen
and thought. But I cannot end this chapter on
the monks of the Buddha without a reference to
what Bishop Bigandet has said on the same
subject, for he is no observer prejudiced in favour
of Buddhism, but the reverse. He was a bishop
of the Church of Rome, believing always that his
faith contained all truth, and that the Buddha was
but a 'pretended saviour,' his teachings based on
'capital and revolting errors,' and marked with an
' inexplicable and deplorable eccentricity.' Bishop
Bigandet was in no sympathy with Buddhism, but
its avowed foe, desirous of undermining and destroy-
ing its influence over the hearts of men, and yet
this is the way he ends his chapter :
' There is in that religious body — the monks — a
latent principle of vitality that keeps it up and com-
municates to it an amount of strength and energy
that has hitherto maintained it in the midst of wars,
revolutionary and political, convulsions of all descrip-
tions. Whether supported or not by the ruling
power, it has remained always firm and unchanged.
156 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
It is impossible to account satisfactorily for such a
phenomenon, unless we find a clear and evident
cause of such extraordinary vitality, a cause inde-
pendent of ordinary occurrences of time and circum-
stances, a cause deeply rooted in the very soul of
the populations that exhibit before the observer this
great and striking religious feature.
* That cause appears to be the strong religious
sentiment, the firm faith, that pervades the mass of
Buddhists. The laity admire and venerate the
religious, and voluntarily and cheerfully contribute
to their maintenance and welfare. From its ranks
the religious body is constantly recruited. There is
hardly a m.an that has not been a member of the
fraternity for a certain period of time.
' Surely such a general and continued impulse
could not last long unless it were maintained by a
powerful religious connection.
' The members of the order preserve, at least
exteriorly, the decorum of their profession. The
rules and regulations are tolerably well observed ;
the grades of hierarchy are maintained with scru-
pulous exactitude. The life of the religious is one
of restraint and perpetual control. He is denied all
sorts of pleasures and diversions. How could such
a system of self-denial ever be maintained, were it
not for the belief which the Rahans have in the
merits that they amass by following a course of life
which, after all, is repugnant to Nature? It cannot
THB MONKHOOD 157
be denied that human motives often influence both
the laity and the religious, but, divested of faith and
the sentiments supplied by even a false belief, their
action could not produce in a lasting and persevering
manner the extraordinary and striking fact that we
witness in Buddhist countries.'
This monkhood is the proof of how the people
believe. Has any religion ever had for twenty-four
centuries such a proof as this ?
[ 158]
CHAPTER XI.
THE MONKHOOD — II.
' The restrained in hand, restrained in foot, restrained in speech,
of the greatest self-control. He whose delight is inward, who is
tranquil and happy when alone — him they call "mendicant."' —
Acceptance into the Monkhood.
Besides being the ideal of the Buddhists, the monk
is more : he is the schoolmaster of all the boys. It
must be remembered that this is a thing aside from
his monkhood. A monk need not necessarily teach ;
the aim and object of the monkhood is, as I have
written in the last chapter, purity and abstraction
from the world. If the monk acts as schoolmaster,
that is a thing apart. And yet all monasteries are
schools. The word in Burmese is the same ; they
are identified in popular speech and in popular
opinion. All the monasteries are full of scholars,
all the monks teach. I suppose much the same
reasons have had influence here as in other nations :
the desire of the parents that their children should
learn religion in their childhood, the fact that the
THE MONKHOOD 159
wisest and most honoured men entered the monk-
hood, the leisure of the monks giving- them oppor-
tunity for such occupation.
Every man all through Burma has gone to a
monastery school as a lad, has lived there with the
monks, has learnt from them the elements of educa-
tion and a knowledge of his faith. It is an exception
to find a Burman who cannot read and write. Some-
times from lack of practice the art is lost in later
manhood, but it has always been acquired. The
education is not very deep— reading Burmese and
writing; simple, very simple, arithmetic; a know-
ledge of the days and months, and a little geography,
perhaps, and history— that is all. But of their religion
they learn a great deal. They have to get by heart
great portions of the sacred books, stories and
teachings, and they have to learn many prayers.
They have to recite them, too, as those who have
lived much near monasteries know. Several times
a day, at about nine o'clock at night, and again
before dawn, you will hear the lads intoning clearly
and loudly some of the sacred teachings. I have
been awakened many a time in the early m.orning,
before the dawn, before even the promise of the
dawn in the eastern sky, by the children's voices
intoning. And I have put aside my curtain and
looked out from my rest-house and seen them in
the dim starlight kneeling before the pagoda, the
tomb of the great teacher, saying his laws. The
i6o THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
light comes rapidly in this country : the sky reddens,
the stars die quickly overhead, the first long beams
of sunrise are trembling on the dewy bamboo
feathers ere they have finished. It is one of the
most beautiful sights imaginable to see monks and
children kneeling on the bare ground, singing while
the dawn comes. ;.|
The education in their religion is very good, very
thorough, not only in precept, but in practice ; for
in the monastery you must live a holy life, as the
monks live, even if you are but a schoolboy.
But the secular education is limited. It is up to
the standard of education amongst the people at
large, but that is saying little. Beyond reading and
writing and arithmetic it does not go. I have seen
the little boys do arithmetic. They were adding
sums, and they began, not as we would, on the
right, but on the left. They added, say, the
hundreds first ; then they wrote on the slate the
number of hundreds, and added up the tens. If
it happened that the tens mounted up so as to add
one or more to the hundreds, a grimy little finger
>vould wipe out the hundreds already written and
write in the correct numbers. It follows that if the
units on being added up came to over ten, the tens
must be corrected with the grimy little finger, first
put in the mouth. Perhaps both tens and hundreds
had to be written again. It will be seen that when
you come to thousands and tens of thousands, a
THE MONKHOOD ^tl
good deal of wiping out and re-writing may be
required. A Burman is very bad at arithmetic;
a villager will often write 133 as 100,303 ; he would
almost as soon write 43 as 34 ; both figures are in
each number, you see.
I never met a Burman who had any idea of cubic
measurement, though land measurement they pick
up very quickly.
I have said that the education in the monasteries
is up to the average education of the people. That
is so. Whether when civilization progresses and
more education is required the monasteries will be
able to provide it is another thing.
The education given now is mostly a means to
an end : to learning the precepts of religion.
Whether the monks will provide an education
beyond such a want, I doubt. You see, a monk
is by his vows, by the whole tenour of his life,
apart from the world ; too keen a search after
knowledge, any kind of secular knowledge, would
be a return to the things of this life, would, perhaps,
re-kindle in him the desires that the whole meaning
of his life is to annihilate. ' And after thou hast run
over all things, what will it profit thee if thou hast
neglected thyself.^'
Besides, no knowledge, except mere theoretical
knowledge, can be acquired without going about in
the world. You cannot cut yourself off from the
world and get knowledge of it. Yet the monk is
I I
i62 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
apart from the world. It is true that Buddhism has
no antagonism to science — nay, has every sympathy
with, every attraction to, science. Buddhism will
never try and block the progress of the truth, of
light, secular or religious ; but whether the monks
will find it within their vows to provide that science,
only time can prove. However it may be, it will
not make any difference to the estimation in which
the monks are held. They are not honoured for
their wisdom^ — they often have but little ; nor for
their learning — they often have none at all ; nor for
their industry — they are never industrious ; but
because they are men trying to live — nay, suc-
ceeding in living — a life void of sin. Up till now
the education given by the monks has met the
wants of the people ; in future it will do so less
and less. But a community that has lived through
twenty centuries of change, and is now of the
strength and vitality that the Buddhist monkhood
is, can have nothing to fear from any such change.
Schoolmasters, except religious and elementary,
they may cease to be, perhaps ; the pattern and
ensample of purity and righteousness they will
always remain.
[ i63 ]
CHAPTER XII.
PRAYER.
'What is there that can justify tears and lamentations?'
Saying of the Buddha.
Down below my house, in a grove of palms near the
river, was a little rest-house. It was but a roof and
a floor of teak boarding without any walls, and it
was plainly built. It might have held, perhaps,
twenty people ; and here, as I strolled past in the
evening when the sun was setting, I would see two
or three old men sitting- with beads in their hands.
They were making their devotions, saying to them-
selves that the world was all trouble, all weariness,
and that there was no rest anywhere except in
observing the laws of righteousness. It was very
pathetic, I thought, to see them there, saying this
over and over again, as they told their beads
through their withered fingers, for surely there was
no necessity for them to learn it. Has not every-
one learnt it, this, the first truth of Buddhism, long
before his hair is gray, before his hands are shaking.
1 1 — 2
1 64 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
before his teeth are gone? But there they would
sit, evening after evening, thinking of the change
about to come upon them soon, reaHzing the empti-
ness of life, wishing for the Great Peace.
On Sundays the rest-house, like many others
round the village, was crowded. Old men there
would be, and one or two young men, a few
children, and many women. Early in the morning'
they would come, and a monk would come down
from the monastery near by, and each one would
vow, with the monk as witness, that he or she would
spend the day in meditation and in holy thought,
would banish all thought of evil, and be for the day
at least holy. And then, the vow made, the devotee
would go and sit in the rest-house and meditate. The
village is not very near ; the sounds come very softly
through the trees, not enough to disturb the mind ;
only there is the sigh of the wind wandering amid the
leaves, and the occasional cry of birds. Once before
noon a meal will be eaten, either food brought with
them cold, or a simple pot of rice boiled beside the
rest-house, and there they will stay till the sun sets
and darkness is gathering about the foot of the trees.
There is no service at all. The monk may come
and read part of the sacred books — some of the
Abidama, or a sermon from the Thoots — and
perhaps sometimes he may expound a little ; that
is all. There is nothing akin to our ideas of
worship. For consider what our service consists
PRAYER 165
of: there is thanksgiving and praise, there is prayer,
there is reading of the Bible, there is a sermon.
Our thanksgiving and praise is rendered to God for
things He has done, the pleasure that He has allowed
us to enjoy, the punishment that He might have
inflicted upon us and has not. Our prayer is to
Him to preserve us in future, to assist us in our
troubles, to give us our daily food, not to be too
severe upon us, not to punish us as we deserve,
but to be merciful and kind. We ask Him to
protect us from our enemies, not to allow them
to triumph over us, but to give us triumph over
them.
But the Buddhist has far other thoughts than
these. He believes that the world is ruled by ever-
lasting, unchangeable laws of righteousness. The
great God lives far behind His laws, and they are
for ever and ever. You cannot change the laws of
righteousness by praising them, or by crying against
them, any more than you can change the revolution
of the earth. Sin begets sorrow, sorrow is the only
purifier from sin ; these are eternal sequences ; they
cannot be altered ; it would not be good that they
should be altered. The Buddhist believes that the
sequences are founded on righteousness, are the
path to righteousness, and he does not believe he
could alter them for the better, even if he had the
power by prayer to do so. He believes in the ever-
lasting righteousness, that all things work for good in
1 66 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
the end ; he has no need for prayer or praise ; he
thinks that the world is governed with far greater
wisdom than any of his — perfect wisdom, that is too
great, too wonderful, for his petty praise.
God lives far behind His laws ; think not He has
made them so badly as to require continual rectifica-
tion at the prayer of man. Think not that God i^
not bound by His own laws. The Buddhist will
never believe that God can break His own laws ;
that He is like an earthly king who imagines one
code of morality for his subjects and another for
himself. Not so ; the great laws are founded in
righteousness, so the Buddhist believes, in ever-
lasting righteousness ; they are perfect, far beyond
our comprehension ; they are the eternal, unchange-
able, marvellous will of God, and it is our duty not
to be for ever fretfully trying to change them, but to
be trying to understand them. That is the Buddhist
belief in the meaning of religion, and in the laws of
righteousness ; that is, he believes the duty of him
who would follow religion to be to try to under-
stand these laws, to bring them home to the heart,
so to order life as to bring it into harmony with
righteousness.
Now see the difference. We believe that the
world is governed not by eternal laws, but by a
changeable and continually changing God, and that
it is our duty to try and persuade Him to make it
better.
PRAYER 167
We believe, really, that we know a great deal
better than God what is good, not only for us, but
for others ; we do not believe His will is always
righteous — not at all : God has wrath to be depre-
crated ; He has mercy to be aroused ; He has
partiality to be turned towards us, and hence our
prayers.
But to the Buddhist the whole world is ruled by
righteousness, the same for all, the same for ever,
and the only sin is ignorance of these laws.
The Buddha is he who has found for us the light
to see these laws, and to order our life in accordance
with them.
And so it will be understood, I think, why there
is no prayer, no gathering together for any cere-
monial, in Buddhism ; why there is no praise, no
thanksgiving of any kind ; why it is so very different
in this way from our faith. Buddhism is a wisdom,
a seeking of the light, a following of the light, each
man as best he can, and it has very little to corre-
spond with our prayer, our services of praise, our
meetings together in the name of Christ.
Therefore, when you see a man kneeling before a
pagoda, moving silent lips of prayer, when you see
the people sitting quietly in the rest-houses on a
Sunday, when you see the old men telling their
beads to themselves slowly and sadly, when you
hear the resonant chant of monks and children,
lending a soul to the silence of the gloaming, you
1 68 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
will know what they are doing. They are trying
to understand and bring home to themselves the
eternal laws of righteousness ; they are honouring
their great teacher.
This is all that there is ; this is the meaning of all
that you see and hear. The Buddhist praises and
honours the Buddha, the Indian prince who so long,
ago went out into the wilderness to search for truth,
and after many years found it in his own heart ; he
reverences the Buddha for seeing the light ; he
thanks the Buddha for his toil and exertion in
makinof this light known to all men. It can do
the Buddha no good, all this praise, for he has come
to his eternal peace ; but it can arouse the enthusiasm
of the follower, can bring into his heart love for the
memory of the great teacher, and a firm resolve to
follow his teaching.
And so the service of his religion is to try and
follow these laws, to take them home into the heart,
that the follower, too, may come soon into the Great
Peace.
This has been called a pessimism. Surely it is
the greatest optimism the world has known — this
certainty that the world is ruled by righteousness,
that the world has been, that the world will always
be, ruled by perfect righteousness.
To the Buddhist this is a certainty. The laws
are laws of righteousness, if man would but see,
would but understand. Do not complain and cry
PRAYER 169
and pray, but open your eyes and see. The light is
all about you, if you would only cast the bandage
from your eyes and look. It is so wonderful, so
beautiful, far beyond what any man has dreamt of,
has prayed for, and it is for ever and for ever.
This is the attitude of Buddhism towards prayer,
towards thanksgiving. It considers them an im-
pertinence and a foolishness, born of ignorance,
akin to the action of him who would daily desire
Atlas not to allow the heavens to drop upon the
earth.
The world is ruled by laws, and these laws are
laws of righteousness.
And yet, and yet.
I remember standing once on the platform ot
a famous pagoda, the golden spire rising before us,
and carved shrines around us, and seeing a woman
lying there, her face to the pagoda. She was pray-
ing fervently, so fervently that her words could be
heard, for she had no care for anyone about, in such
trouble was she ; and what she was asking was this,
that her child, her baby, might not die. She held
the little thing in her arms, and as she looked upon
it her eyes were full of tears. For it was very sick ;
its litde limbs were but thin bones, with big knees
and elbows, and its face was very wan. It could
not even take any interest in the wonderful sights
around, but hardly opened its careworn eyes now
and then to blink upon the world.
I70 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
' Let him recover, let him be well once more !' the
woman cried, again and again.
Whom was she beseeching? I do not know.
' Thakin, there will be Someone, Someone. A
Spirit may hear. Who can tell ? Surely some-
one will help me ? Men would help me if they
could, but they cannot ; surely there will be some- ,
one i*'
So she did not remember the story of Ma Pa Da.
Women often pray, I think. — they pray that their
husbands and those they love may be well. It is a
frequent ending to a girl's letter to her lover :
'And I pray always that you may be well.' I
never heard of their praying for anything but this :
that they may be loved, and those they love may
be well. Nothing else is worth praying for besides
this. The queen would pray at the pagoda in
the palace morning and evening. ' What did she
pray for ?' ' What should she pray for, thakin ?
Surely she prayed that her husband might be true
to her, and that her children might live and be
strong. That is what women pray for. Do you
think a queen would pray differently to any other
woman ?'
' Women,' say the Buddhist monks, ' never under-
stand. They will not understand ; they cannot
learn. And so we say that most women must be
born again, as men, before they can see the light
and understand the laws of righteousness.'
PRAYER 171
What do women care for laws of righteousness ?
What do they care for justice ? What for the ever-
lasting sequences that govern the world ? Would
not they Involve all other men, all earth and heaven,
in bottomless chaos, to save one heart they loved ?
That is woman's religion.
[ 172 ]
CHAPTER XIII. ^^
FESTIVALS.
' The law is sweet, filling the soul with joy.'
Saying of the Buddha.
The three months of the rains, from the full moon
of July to the full moon of October, is the Buddhist
Lent. It was during these months that the Buddha
would retire to some monastery and cease from
travelling and teaching for a time. The custom
was far older even than that — so old that we do not
know how it arose. Its origin is lost in the mists
of far-away time. But whatever the beginning
may have been, it fits in very well with the habits
of the people ; for in the rains travelling is not easy.
The roads are very bad, covered even with water,
often deep in mud ; and the rest-houses, with open
sides, are not very comfortable with the rain drifting
in. Even if there were no custom of Lent, there
would be but little travelling then. People would
stay at home, both because of the discomfort of
moving, and because there is much work then at
FESTIVALS 173
the village. For this is the time to plough, this is
the time to sow ; on the villagers' exertions in these
months depends all their maintenance for the rest of
the year. Every man, every woman, every child,
has hard work of some kind or another.
And so, what with the difficulties of travelling,
what with the work there is to do, and what with
the custom of Lent, everyone stays at home. It is
the time for prayer, for fasting, for improving the
soul. Many men during these months will live even
as the monks live, will eat but before mid-day, will
abstain from tobacco. There are no plays during
Lent, and there are no marriages It is the time
for preparing the land for the crop ; it is the time
for preparing the soul for eternity. The congrega-
tions on the Sundays will be far greater at this time
than at any other; there will be more thought of
the serious things of life.
It is a very long Lent — three months ; but with
the full moon of October comes the end. The rains
then are over ; the great black bank of clouds that
walled up all the south so long is gone. The south
wind has died away, and the light, fresh north wind
is coming down the river. The roads are drying
up, the work in the fields is over for a time, awaiting
the ripening of the grain. The damp has gone out
of the air, and it is very clear. You can see once
more the purple mountains that you have missed so
long ; there is a new feeling in the wind, a laughter
174 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
in the sunshine, a flush of blossom along the fields
like the awakening of a new joy. The rains are
over and the cool weather is coming ; Lent is over
and gladness is returned ; the crop has been sown,
and soon will come the reaping. And so at this
full moon of October is the great feast of the year.
There are other festivals : of the New Year, in'
March, with its water - throwing ; of each great
pagoda at its appointed time ; but of all, the festival
of the end of Lent is the greatest.
Wherever there are great pagodas the people will
come in from far and near for the feast. There are
many great pagodas in Burma ; there is the Arakan
pagoda in Mandalay, and there was the Incomparable
pagoda, which has been burnt ; there are great
pagodas at Pegu, at Prome, at many other places ;
but perhaps the greatest of all is the Shwe Dagon
at Rangoon.
You see it from far away as you come up the
river, steaming in from the open sea, a great tongue
of flame before you. It stands on a small conical
hill just behind the city of Rangoon, about two
miles away from the wharves and shipping in the
busy river. The hill has been levelled on the top
and paved into a wide platform, to which you ascend
by a flight of many steps from the gate below, where
stand the dragons. This entrance-way is all roofed
over, and the pillars and the ceiling are red and
painted. Here it was that much fighting took place
FESTIVALS 175
in the early wars, in 1852 especially, and many men,
English and Burmese, were killed in storming and
defending this strong place. For it has been made
a very strong place, this holy place of him who
taught that peace was the only good, and the
defences round about it are standing still. Upon
the top of this hill, the flat paved top, stands the
pagoda, a great solid tapering cone over three
hundred feet high, ending in an iron fretwork spire
that glitters with gold and jewels ; and the whole
pagoda is covered with gold — pure leaf- gold.
Down below it is being always renewed by the
pious offerings of those who come to pray and
spread a little gold-leaf on it ; but every now and
then it is all regilt, from the top, far away above
you, to the golden lions that guard its base. It is a
most wonderful sight, this great golden cone, in that
marvellous sunlight that bathes its sides like a golden
sea. It seems to shake and tremble in the light like
a fire. And all about the platform, edging it ere it
falls away below, are little shrines, marvels of carven
woodwork and red lacquer. They have tapering-
roofs, one above another, till they, too, end in a
golden spire full of little bells with tongues. And
as the wind blows the tongues move to and fro,
and the air is full of music, so faint, so clear, like
'silver stir of strings in hollow shells.'
In most of these shrines there are statues of the
great teacher, cut in white alabaster, glimmering
176 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
whitely in the lustrous shadows there within ; and in
one shrine is the great bell. Long ago we tried to
take this great bell ; we tried to send it home as a
war trophy, this bell stolen from their sacred place,
but we failed. As it was being put on board a ship,
it slipped and fell into the river into the mud, where
the fierce tides are ever coming and going And'
when all the efforts of our engineers to raise it had
failed, the Burmese asked : ' The bell, our bell, is
there in the water. You cannot get it up. You
have tried and you have failed. If we can get it
up, may we have it back to hang in our pagoda as
our own again ?' And they were told, with a laugh,
perhaps, that they might ; and so they raised it up
again, the river giving back to them what it had
refused to us, and they took and hung it where it
used to be. There it is now, and you may hear it
when you go, giving out a long, deep note, the beat
of the pagoda's heart.
There are many trees, too, about the pagoda plat-
form— so many, that seen far off you can only see
the trees and the pagoda towering above them.
Have not trees been always sacred things ? Have
not all religions been glad to give their fanes the
glory and majesty of great trees ?
You may look from the pagoda platform over the
whole country, over the city and the river and the
straight streets ; and on the other side you may see
the lonor white lakes and little hills covered with
FESTIVALS 177
trees. It is a very beautiful place, this pagoda, and
it is steeped in an odour of holiness, the perfume of
the thousand thousand prayers that have been prayed
there, of the thousand thousand holy thoughts that
have been thous^ht there.
The pagoda platform is always full of people
kneeling, saying over and over the great precepts
of their faith, trying to bring into their hearts the
meaning of the teaching of him of whom this
wonderful pagoda represents the tomb. There are
always monks there passing to and fro, or standing
leaning on the pillars of the shrines ; there are
always a crowd of people climbing up and down
the long steps that lead from the road below. It is
a place I always go to when I am in Rangoon ;
for, besides its beauty, there are the people ;
and if you go and stand near where the stairway
reaches the platform you will see the people come
up. They come up singly, in twos, in groups. First
a nun, perhaps, walking very softly, clad in her
white dress with her beads about her neck, and there
in a corner by a little shrine she will spread a cloth
upon the hard stones and kneel and bow her face
to the great pagoda. And then she will repeat,
'Sorrow, misery, trouble,' over and over again,
running her beads through her fingers, repeating
the words in the hope that in the end she may
understand whither they should lead her. * Sorrow,
misery, trouble ' — ah ! surely she must know what
12
178 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
they mean, or she would not be a nun. And then
comes a young man, and after a reverence to the
pagoda he goes wandering round, looking for some-
one, maybe ; and then comes an old man with his
son. They stop at the little stalls on the stairs, and
they have bought there each a candle. The old
man has a plain taper, but the little lad must haVe
one with his emblem on it. Each day has its owri
sign, a tiger for Monday, and so on, and the lad
buys a candle like a litde rat, for his birthday is
Friday, and the father and son go on to the plat-
form. And there they kneel down side by side, the
old man and the litde chubby lad, and they, too, say
that all is misery and delusion. And then they rise
and advance to the pagoda's golden base, and put
their candles thereon and light them. This side of
the pagoda is in shadow now, and so you can see
the lights of the candles as little stars.
And then come three girls, sisters, perhaps, all
so prettily dressed, with meek eyes, and they, too,
buy candles ; they, too, kneel and say their prayers,
for long, so long, that you wonder if anything has
happened, if there has been any trouble that has
brought them thus in the sunset to the remembrance
of religion. But at last they rise, and they light
their little candles near by where the old man and
the boy have lit theirs, and then they go away.
They are so sad, they keep their faces so turned
upon the ground, that you fear there has been some-
FESTIVALS 179
thing, some trouble come upon them. You feel so
sorry for them, you would like to ask them what it
all is ; you would like to help them if you could.
But you can do nothing. They go away down the
steps, and you hear the nun repeating always,
' Sorrow, misery, trouble.'
So they come and go.
But on the festival days at the end of Lent it is
far more wonderful. Then for units there are tens,
for tens there are hundreds — all come to do reverence
to the great teacher at this his great holy place.
There is no especial ceremony, no great service,
such as we are accustomed to on our festivals. Only
there will be many offerings ; there will be a pro-
cession, maybe, with offerings to the pagoda, with
offerings to the monks ; there will be much gold-leaf
spread upon the pagoda sides ; there will be many
people kneeling there — that is all. For, you see.
Buddhism is not an affair of a communitv, but of
each man's own heart.
To see the great pagoda on the festival days is
one of the sights of the world. There are a great
crowd of people coming and going, climbing up the
steps. There are all sorts of people, rich and poor,
old and young. Old men there are, climbing wearily
up these steps that are so steep, steps that lead
towards the Great Peace ; and there are old women,
too — many of them.
Young men will be there, walking briskly up.
12 — 2
i8o THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
laughing and talking to each other, very happy,
very merry, glad to see each other, to see so many
people, calling pleasant greetings to their friends as
they pass. They are all so gaily dressed, with
beautiful silks and white jackets and gay satin head-
clothes, tied with a little end sticking up as a plume.
And the girls, how shall I describe them, so sweet
they are, so pretty in their fresh dresses, with down-
cast eyes of modesty, tempered with little side-
glances. They laugh, too, as they go, and they
talk, never forgetting the sacredness of the place,
never forgetting the reverences due, kneeling always
first as they come up to the great pagoda, but being
of good courage, happy and contented. There are
children, too, numbers and numbers of them, walking
along, with their little hands clasping so tightly some
bigger ones, very fearful lest they should be lost.
They are as gay as butterflies in their dress, biit
their looks are very solemn. There is no solemnity
like that of a little child ; it takes all the world so
very, very seriously, walking along with great eyes
of wonder at all it sees about it.
They are all well dressed who come here ; on a
festival day even the poor can be dressed well.
Pinks and reds are the prevailing colours, in checks,
in stripes, mixed usually with white. These colours
go best with their brown skins, and they are fondest
of them. But there are other colours, too : there is
silver and green embroidery, and there are shot-
FESTIVALS i8i
silks in purple and orange, and there is dark blue.
All the jackets, or nearly all the jackets, are white
with wide sleeves, showing the arm nearly up to the
elbow. Each man has his turban very gay, while
each girl has a bright handkerchief which she drapes
as she likes upon her arm, or carries in her hand.
Such a blaze of colour would not look well with us.
Under our dull skies and with our sober lights it
would be too bright ; but here it is not so. Every-
thing is tempered by the sun ; it is so brilliant, this
sunlight, such a golden flood pouring down and
bathing the whole world, that these colours are only
in keeping. And before them is the gold pagoda,
and about them the red lacquer and dark-brown
carving of the shrines.
You hear voices like the murmur of a summer sea,
rising and falling, full of laughter low and sweet, and
above is the music of the fairy bells.
Everything is in keeping — the shining pagoda and
the gaily-dressed people, their voices and the bells,
even the great bell far beyond, and all are so happy.
The feast lasts for seven days ; but of these there
are three that are greater, and of these, one, the day
of the full moon, is the greatest of all. On that day
the offerings will be most numerous, the crowd
densest. Down below the pagoda are many
temporary stalls built, where you can buy all sorts
of fairings, from a baby's jointed doll to a new silk
dress ; and there are restaurants where you may
1 82 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
obtain -refreshments ; for the pagoda is some way
from the streets of the city, and on festival days
refreshments are much wanted.
These stalls are always crowded with people
buying and selling, or looking anxiously at the
many pretty wares, unable, perhaps, to buy. The
refreshments are usually very simple — rice and curry
for supper, and for little refreshments between whiles
there are sugar-cakes and vermicelli, and other little
cakes.
The crowd going up and down the steps is like
a gorgeous-coloured flood, crested with white foam,
flowing between the dragons of the gate ; and on
the platform the crowd is thicker than ever. All
day the festival goes on — the praying, the offering
of gifts, the burning of little candles before the
shrines — until the sun sets across the open country
far beyond in gold and crimson glory. But even
then there is no pause, no darkness, for hardly has
the sun's last bright shaft faded from the pagoda
spire far above, while his streamers are still bright
across the west, than there comes in the east a
new radiance, so soft, so wonderful, it seems more
beautiful than the dying day. Across the misty
fields the moon is rising ; first a crimson globe hung
low among the trees, but rising fast, and as it rises
growing whiter. Its light comes flooding down
upon the earth, pure silver with very black shadows.
Then the night breeze begins to bluw, very softly,
FESTIVALS
183
very gently, and the trees give out their odour to
the night, which woos them so much more sweetly
than the day, till all the air is heavy with incense.
Behold, the pagoda has started into a new glory,
for it is all hung about with little lamps, myriads of
tiny cressets, and the facades of the shrines are lit
up, too. The lamps are put in long rows or in
circles, to fit the places they adorn. They are little
earthenware jars full of cocoanut oil, with a lip
where is the wick. They burn very redly, and
throw a red light about the platform, breaking the
shadows that the moonlight throws and staining its
whiteness.
In the streets, too, there are lamps— the houses
are lined with them— and there are little pagodas
and ships curiously designed in flame.
All the people come out to see the illuminations,
just as they do with us at Christmas to see the shop-
windows, and the streets are crowded with people
going to and fro, laughino and talking. And there
are dramatic entertainments going on, dances and
marionette shows, all in the open air. The people
are all so happy, they take their pleasure so plea-
sandy, that it is a delight to see them. You can-
not help but be happy, too. The men joke and
laugh, and you laugh, too ; the children smile at
you as they pass, and you must smile, too ; can you
help it } And to see the girls makes the heart glad
within you. There is an infection from the good
1 84 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
temper and the gaiety about you that is irresistible,
even if you should want to resist it.
The festival goes on till very late. The moon is
so bright that you forget how late it is, and only
remember how beautiful is all around. You are very
loath to leave it, and so it is not till the moon itself
is falling low down in the same path whither the
sun went before her, it is not till the lamps are
dying one by one and the children are yawning
very sleepily, that the crowd disperses and the
pagoda is at rest.
Such is a great feast at a great pagoda.
But whenever I think of a great feast, whenever
the growing autumn moon tells me that the end
of Lent is drawing nigh, it is not the great feast
of the Shwe Dagon, nor of any other famous
pagoda that comes into my mind, but something
far different.
It was on a frontier long ago that there was the
festival that I remember so well. The country
there was very far away from all the big towns ;
the people were not civilized as those of Mandalay
or of Rangoon ; the pagoda was a very small one.
There was no gilding upon it at all, and no shrines
were about it ; it stood alone, just a little white
plastered pagoda, with a few trees near it, on a
bare rice-field. There were a few villages about,
dotted here and there in the swamp, and the people
of these were all that came to our festival.
FESTIVALS 185
For long before the villagers were preparing for
it, saving a little money here, doing a little extra
work there, so that they might be able to have
presents ready for the monks, so that they might be
able to subscribe to the lights, so that they would
have a good dress in which they might appear.
The men did a little more work at the fields,
bamboo-cutting in the forest, making baskets in the
evening, and the women wove. All had to work
very hard to have even a little margin ; for there,
although food — plain rice — was very cheap, all other
things were very expensive. It was so far to bring
them, and the roads were so bad. I remember that
the only European things to be bought there then
were matches and tinned milk, and copper money
was not known. You paid a rupee, and took the
change in rice or other commodities.
The excitement of the great day of the full moon
began in the morning, about ten o'clock, with the
offerings to the monks. Outside the village gate
there was a piece of straight road, dry and open,
and on each side of this, in rows, were the people
with their gifts ; mostly they were eatables. You
see that it is very difficult to find any variety of
things to give a monk ; he is very stricdy limited
in the things he is allowed to receive. Garments,
yellow garments, curtains to partition off corners of
the monasteries and keep away the draughts, sacred
books and eatables — that is nearly all. But eatables
i86 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
allow a very wide range. A monk may accept and
eat any food — not drink, of course — provided he eat
but the one big meal a day before noon ; and so
most of the offerings were eatables Each donor
knelt there upon the road with his or her offerings
in a tray in front. There was rice cooked in all
sorts of shapes, ordinary rice for eating with curry,,
and the sweet purple rice, cooked in bamboos and
coming out in sticks. There were vegetables, too,
of very many kinds, and sugar and cakes and oil
and honey, and many other such things. There
were a few, very few, books, for they are very hard
to get, being all in manuscript ; and there were one
or two tapestry curtains ; but there were heaps of
flowers. I remember there was one girl whose
whole offering was a few orchid sprays, and a little,
very little, heap of common rice. She was so poor ;
her father and mother were dead, and she was not
married. It was all she could oive. She sat behind
her little offering, as did all the donors. And my
gift.^ Well, although an English official, I was not
then very much richer than the people about me, so
my gift must be small, too — a tin of biscuits, a tin or
two of jam, a new pair of scissors. I did not sit
behind them myself, but gave them to the headman
to put with his offerings ; for the monks were old
friends of mine. Did I not live in one of their
monasteries for over two months when we first
came and camped there with a cavalry squadron ?
FESTIVALS 187
And if there is any merit in such little charity, as
the Burmese say there is, why should I not gain it,
too ? The monks said my present was best of all,
because it was so uncommon ; and the biscuits, they
said, though they did not taste of much while you
were eating them, had a very pleasant after-taste
that lasted a long time. They were like charity,
maybe : that has a pleasant after-taste, too, they
tell me.
When all the presents, with the donors behind
them, dressed all in their best, were ready, the monks
came. There were four monasteries near by, and
the monks, perhaps in all thirty, old and young,
monks and novices, came in one long procession,
walking very slowly, with downcast eyes, between
the rows of gifts and givers. They did not look at
them at all. It is not proper for a monk to notice
the gifts he receives ; but schoolboys who came
along behind attending on them, they saw and
made remarks. Perhaps they saw the chance of
some overflow of these good things coming their
way. ' See,' one nudged the other ; ' honey— what
a lot ! I can smell it, can't you T And, ' My
mother ! what a lot of sweet rice. Who gave that }
Oh, 1 see old U Hman.' ' I wonder what's in that
tin box.?' remarked one as he passed my biscuits.
' I hope it's coming to our monastery, any way.'
Thus the monks passed, paying no sort of atten-
tion, while the people knelt to them ; and when the
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
procession reached the end of the line of offerings,
it went on without stopping, across the fields, the
monks of each monastery going to their own place ;
and the givers of presents rose up and followed
them, each carrying his or her gifts. And so they
went across the fields till each little procession was
lost to sight.
That was all the ceremony for the day, but at
dusk the illuminations began. The little pagoda in
the fields was lighted up nearly to its top with con-
centric rings of lamps till it blazed like a pyramid of
flame, seen far across the night. All the people
came there, and placed little offerings of flowers at
the foot of the pagoda, or added each his candle to
the big illumination.
The house of the headman of the village was lit
up with a few rows of lamps, and all the monasteries,
too, were lit. There were no restaurants — everyone
was at home, you see — but there were one or two
little stalls, at which you could buy a cheroot, or
even perhaps a cup of vermicelli ; and there was a
dance. It was only the village girls who had been
taught, partly by their own mothers, partly by an
old man, who knew something of the business.
They did not dance very well, perhaps ; they were
none of them very beautiful ; but what matter ? We
knew them all ; they were our neighbours, the kins-
women of half the village ; everyone liked to see
them dance, to hear them sing ; they were all
FESTIVALS 189
young-, and are not all young girls pretty? And
amongst the audience were there not the o-irls'
relations, their sisters, their lovers ? would not that
alone make the girls dance well, make the audience
enthusiastic ? And so, what with the illuminations,
and the chat and laughter of friends, and the dance,
we kept it up till very late ; and we all went to bed
happy and well pleased with each other, well pleased
with ourselves. Can you imagine a more successful
end than that ?
To write about these festivals is so pleasant, it
brings back so many delightful memories, that I could
go on writing for long and long. But there is no use
in doing so, as they are all very much alike, with little
local differences depending on the enterprise of the
inhabitants and the situation of the place. There
might be boat-races, perhaps, on a festival day, or
pony-races, or boxing. I have seen all these, if not
at the festival at the end of Lent, at other festivals.
I remember once I was going up the river on a
festival night by the full moon, and we saw point
after point crowned with lights upon the pagodas ;
and as we came near the great city we saw a new
glory ; for there was a boat anchored in mid-stream,
and from this boat there dropped a stream of fire ;
myriads of litde lamps burned on tiny rafts that
drifted down the river in a golden band. There were
every now and then bigger rafts, with figures made
in light— boats and pagodas and monasteries. The
I90 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
lights heaved with the long swell of the great river,
and bent to and fro like a great snake following the
tides, until at length they died far away into the night.
I do not know what is the meaning of all these
lights ; I do not know that they have any inner
meaning, only that the people are very glad, only
that they greatly honour the great teacher who died
so long ago, only that they are very fond of light
and colour and laughter and all beautiful things.
But although these festivals often become also
fairs, although they are the great centres for amuse-
ment, although the people look to them as their
great pleasure of the year, it must not be forgotten
that they are essentially religious feasts, holy days.
Though there be no great ceremony of prayer, or
of thanksgiving, no public joining in any religious
ceremony, save, perhaps, the giving of alms to the
monks, yet religion is the heart and soul of them.
Their centre is the pagoda, their meaning is a
religious meaning.
What if the people make merry, too, if they make
their holy days into holidays, is that any harm }
For their pleasures are very simple, very innocent ;
there is nothing that the moon, even the cold and
distant moon, would blush to look upon. The
people make merry because they are merry, because
their religion is to them a very beautiful thing, not
to be shunned or feared, but to be exalted to the
eye of day, to be rejoiced in.
[ 191 J
CHAPTER. XIV.
WOMEN 1.
'Her cheek is more beautiful than the dawn, her eyes are
deeper than the river pools ; when she loosens her hair upon her
shoulders, it is as night coming over the \\\\\s:— Burmese Love-
Song.
If you were to ask a Burman 'What is the position
of women in Burma ? he would reply that he did not
know what you meant. Women have no position,
no fixed relation towards men beyond that fixed by
the fact that women are women and men are men.
They differ a great deal in many ways, so a Burman
would say ; men are better in some things, women
are better in others ; if they have a position, their
relative superiority in certain things determines it.
How else should it be determined .?
If you say by religion, he laughs, and asks what
religion has to do with such things.? Religion is a
culture of the soul ; it is not concerned with the
relationship of men and women. If you say by law,
he says that law has no more to do with it than
192 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
religion. In the eye of the law both are alike.
' You wouldn't have one law for a man and another
for a woman ?' he asks.
In the life of the Buddha nothing is said upon the
subject. The great teacher never committed him-
self to an opinion as to whether men or women
were the highest. He had men disciples, he had
women disciples ; he honoured both. Nowhere In
any of his sayings can anything be found to show
that he made any difference between them. That
monks should be careful and avoid Intercourse with
women is merely the counterpart of the order that
nuns should be careful In their intercourse with men.
That man's greatest attraction is woman does not
infer wickedness in woman ; that woman's greatest
attraction is man does not show that man Is a devil.
Wickedness is a thing of your own heart. If he
could be sure that his desire towards women was
dead, a monk might see them as much as he liked.
The desire Is the enemy, not the woman ; there-
fore a woman Is not damned because by her man Is
often tempted to evil ; therefore a woman Is not
praised because by her a man may be led to better
thoughts. She is but the outer and unconscious
influence.
If, for Instance, you cannot see a precipice without
wishing to throw yourself down, you blame not the
precipice, but your giddiness ; and if you are wise
you avoid precipices In future. You do not rail
WOMEN 193
against steep places because you have a bad circula-
tion. So it is with women : you should not contemn
women because they rouse a devil in man.
And it is the same with man. Men and women
are alike subject to the eternal laws. And they
are alike subject to the laws of man ; in no material
points, hardly even in minor points, does the law
discriminate against women.
The law as regards marriage and inheritance and
divorce will come each in its own place. It is
curiously the same both for the man and the woman.
The criminal law was the same for both ; I have
tried to find any difference, and this is all I have
found : A woman's life was less valuable than a
man's. The price of the body, as it is called, of a
woman was less than that of a man. If a woman
were accidentally killed, less compensation had to
be paid than for a man. I asked a Burman about
this once.
' Why is this difference ?' I said. ' Why does the
law discriminate ?'
* It isn't the law,' he said, ' it is a fact. A woman
is worth less than a man in that way. A maid-
servant can be hired for less than a manservant, a
daughter can claim less than a son. They cannot
do so much work ; they are not so strong. If they
had been worth more, the law would have been the
other way ; of course they are worth less.'
And so this sole discrimination is a fact, not
13
194 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
dogma. It is a fact, no doubt, everywhere. No
one would deny it. The pecuniary value of a
woman is less than that of a man. As to the soul's
value, that is not a question of law, which confines
itself to material affairs. But I suppose all laws
have been framed out of the necessities of mankind.
It was the incessant fighting during the times when
our laws grew slowly into shape, the necessity of
not allowing the possession of land, and the armed
wealth that land gave, to fall into the weaker hands
of women, that led of our laws of inheritance.
Laws then were governed by the necessity of war,
of subjecting everything else to the ability to fight.
Consequently, as women were not such good
fighters as men, they went to the wall. But
feudalism never obtained at all in Burma. What
fighting they did was far less severe than that of
our ancestors, was not the dominant factor in the
position, and consequently woman did not suffer.
She has thus been given the inestimable boon of
freedom. Freedom from sacerdotal dogma, from
secular law, she has always had.
And so, in order to preserve the life of the people,
it has never been necessary to pass laws treating
woman unfairly as regards inheritance ; and as
religion has left her free to find her own position, so
has the law of the land.
And yet the Burman man has a confirmed opinion
that he is better than a woman, that men are on the
WOMEN 19s
whole superior as a sex to women. ' We may be
inferior in some ways,' he will tell you. ' A woman
may steal a march on us here and there, but in the
long-run the man will always win. Women have
no patience.'
I have heard this said over and over aoain, even
by women, that they have less patience than a
man. We have often supposed differently. Some
Burmans have even supposed that a woman must
be reincarnated as a man to gain a step in holiness.
I do not mean that they think men are always
better than women, but that the best men are far
better than the best women, and there are m.any more
of them. However all this may be, it is only an
opinion. Neither in their law, nor in their religion,
nor — what is far more important — in their daily life,
do they acknowledge any inferiority in women be-
yond those patent weaknesses of body that are,
perhaps, more differences than inferiorities.
And so she has always had fair-play, from re-
ligion, from law, and from her fellow man and
woman.
She has been bound by no ties, she has had
perfect freedom to make for herself just such a life
as she thinks best fitted for her. She has had no
frozen ideals of a long dead past held up to her as
eternal copies. She has been allowed to change as
her world changed, and she has lived in a very real
world —a world of stern facts, not fancies. You see.
196 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
she has had to fight her own way ; for the same
laws that made woman lower than man In Europe
compensated her to a certain extent by protection
and guidance. In Burma she has been neither
confined nor guided. In Europe and India for
very long the idea was to make woman a hot-house
plant, to see that no rough winds struck her, that
no injuries overtook her. In Burma she has had
to look out for herself : she has had freedom to come
to grief as well as to come to strength. You see,
all such laws cut both ways. Freedom to do ill must
accompany freedom to do well. You cannot have
one without the other. The Burmese woman has
had both. Ideals act for good as well as for evil ;
if they cramp all progress, they nevertheless tend to
the sustentation of a certain level of thought. She
has had none. Whatever she is, she has made her-
self, finding under the varying circumstances of life
what is the best for her ; and as her surroundings
chanofe, so will she. What she was a thousand
years ago I do not care, what she may be a thousand
years hence I do not know ; it is of what she is
to-day that I have tried to know and write.
Children in Burma have, I think, a very good
time when they are young. Parentage in Burma
has never degenerated into a sort of slavery. It
has never been supposed that gaiety and goodness
are opposed. And so they grow up little merry
naked things, sprawling in the dust of the gardens.
WOMEN 197
sleeping In the sun with their arms round the village
dogs, very sedate, very humorous, very rarely
crying. Boys and girls when they are babies grow
up together, but with the schooldays comes a
division. All the boys go to school at the monas-
tery without the walls, and there learn in noisy
fashion their arithmetic, letters, and other useful
knowledge. But little girls have nowhere to go.
They cannot go to the monasteries, these are for
boys alone, and the nunneries are very scarce. For
twenty monasteries there is not one nunnery.
Women do not seem to care to learn to become
nuns as men do to become monks. Why this is so
I cannot tell, but there is no doubt of the fact. And
so there are no schools for girls as there are for
boys, and consequently the girls are not well
educated as a rule. In great towns there are, of
course, regular schools for girls, generally for girls
and boys together ; but in the villages these very
seldom exist. The girls may learn from their
mothers how to read and write, but most of them
cannot do so. It is an exception in country places
to find a girl who can read, as it is to find a boy who
cannot. If there were more nunneries, there would
be more education among the women ; here is cause
and effect. But there are not, so the little girls
work instead. While their brothers are in the
monasteries, the girls are learning to weave and
herd cattle, drawing water, and collecting firewood.
198 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
They begin very young at this work, but it is very
light ; they are never overworked, and so it does
them no harm usually, but good.
The daughters of better-class people, such as
merchants, and clerks, and advocates, do not, of
course, work at field labour. They usually learn
to read and write at home, and they weave, and,
many will draw water. For to draw water is to go
to the well, and the well is the great meeting-place
of the village. As they fill their jars they lean over
the curb and talk, and it is here that is told the latest
news, the latest flirtation, the little scandal of the
place. Very few men or boys come for water ;
carrying is not their duty, and there is a proper
place for flirtation. So the girls have the well
almost to themselves.
Almost every girl can weave. In many houses
there are looms where the girls weave their dresses
and those of their parents ; and many girls have
stalls in the bazaar. Of this I will speak later.
Other duties are the husking of rice and the making
of cheroots. Of course, in richer households there
will be servants to do all this ; but even in them the
daughter will frequently weave either for herself or
her parents. Almost every girl will do something,
if only to pass the time.
You see, they have no accomplishments. They do
not sing, nor play, nor paint. It must never be for-
gotten that their civilization is relatively a thousand
WOMEN 199
years behind ours. Accomplishments are part of the
polish that a civilization gives, and this they have
not yet reached. Accomplishments are also the
means to fill up time otherwise unoccupied ; but very
few Burmese girls have any time on their hands.
There is no leisured class, and there are very few
girls who have not to help, in one way or another,
at the upkeep of the household.
Mr. Rudyard Kipling tells of a young lady who
played the banjo. He has been more fortunate
than myself, for I have never had such good luck.
They have no accomplishments at all. House-
keeping they have not very much of. You see,
houses are small, and households also are small ;
and there is very little furniture ; and as the cooking
is all the same, there is not much to learn in that
way. I fear, too, that their houses could not
compete as models of neatness with any other
nation. Tidiness is one of the last gifts of civiliza-
tion. We now pride ourselves on our order ; we
forget how very recent an accomplishment it is.
To them it will come with the other gifts of age,
for it must never be forgotten that they are a
very young people — only children, big children —
learning very slowly the lessons of experience and
knowledge.
When they are between eight and fourteen years
of age the boys become monks for a time, as every
boy must, and they have a great festival at their
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
entrance into the monastery. Girls do not enter
nunneries, but they, too, have a great feast in
their honour. They have their ears bored. It
is a festival for a girl of great importance, this
ear-boring, and, according to the wealth of the
parents, it is accompanied by pwes and other
rejoicings. ^/^
A little girl, the daughter of a shopkeeper here
in this town, had her ears bored the other day,
and there were great rejoicings. There was a pwe
open to all for three nights, and there were great
quantities of food, and sweets, and many presents
given away, and on the last night the river was
illuminated. There was a boat anchored in mid-
stream, and from this w^ere launched myriads of
tiny rafts, each with a little lamp on board. The
lamps gleamed bright with golden light as they
drifted on the bosom of the great water, a moving
line of living fire. There were little boats, too,
with the outlines marked with lamps, and there
were pagodas and miniature houses all floating,
floating down the river, till, in far distance by the
promontory, the lamps flickered out one by one, and
the river fell asleep again.
' There is only one great festival in a girl's life,' a
woman told me. ' We try to make it as good as we
can. Boys have many festivals, girls have but one.
It is only just that it should be good.'
And so they grow up very quiet, very sedate,
WOMEN
looking on the world about them with very clear
eyes. It is strange, talking to Burmese girls, to
see how much they know and understand of the
world about them. It is to them no great mystery,
full of unimaginable good and evil, but a world that
they are learning to understand, and where good
and evil are never unmixed. Men are to them
neither angels nor devils, but just men, and so the
world does not hold for them the disappointments,
the disillusionings that await those who do not
know. They have their dreams — who shall doubt
it? — dreams of him who shall love them, whom they
shall love, who shall make life one great glory to
them ; but their dreams are dreams that can come
true. They do not frame to themselves ideals
out of their own ignorance and imagine these to
be good, but they keep their eyes wide open to
the far more beautiful realities that are around them
every day. They know that a living lover is
greater, and truer, and better than any ideal of a
girl's dream. They live in a real world, and they
know it is good.
In time the lover comes. There is a delightful
custom all through Burma, an institution, in fact,
called ' courting-time.' It is from nine till ten o'clock,
more especially on moonlight nights, those wonderful
tropic nights, when the whole world lies in a silver
dream, when the little wandering airs that touch
your cheek like a caress are heavy with the scent of
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
flowers, and your heart comes into your throat for
the very beauty of life.
There is in front of every house a veranda, raised
perhaps three feet from the ground, and there the
girl will sit in the shadow of the eaves, sometimes
with a friend, but usually alone ; and her suitors will
come and stand by the veranda, and talk softly ir\
little broken sentences, as lovers do. There may
be many young men come, one by one, if they mean
business, with a friend if it be merely a visit ot
courtesy. And the girl will receive them all, and
will talk to them all ; will laugh with a little humorous
knowledge of each man's peculiarities ; and she may
give them cheroots, of her own making ; and, for
one perhaps, for one, she will light the cheroot her-
self first, and thus kiss him by proxy.
And is the girl alone } Well, yes. To all intents
and purposes she is alone ; but there is always some-
one near, someone within call, for the veranda is free
to all. She cannot tell who may come, and some
men, as we know, are but wolves in sheep's clothing.
Usually marriages are arranged by the parents.
Girls are not very different here to elsewhere ; they
are very biddable, and ready to do what their mothers
tell them, ready to believe that it is the best. And
so if a lad comes wooing, and can gain the mother's
ear, he can usually win the girl's affection, too ; but
I think there are more exceptions here than else-
where. Girls are freer ; they fall in love of their
WOMEN 203
own accord oftener than elsewhere ; they are very
impulsive, full of passion. Love is a very serious
matter, and they are not trained in self-restraint.
There are very many romances played out every
day in the dusk beside the well, in the deep shadows
of the palm-groves, in the luminous nights by the
river shore — romances that end sometimes well
sometimes in terrible tragedies. For they are a
very passionate people ; the language is full of little
love-songs, songs of a man to a girl, of a girl to a
man. ' No girl,' a woman once told me, ' no good,
quiet girl would tell a man she loved him first.' It
may be so ; if this be true, I fear there are many
girls here who are not good and quiet. How many
romances have I not seen in which the wooing began
with the girl, with a little note perhaps, with a flower,
with a message sent by someone whom she could
trust ! Of course many of these turned out well.
Parents are good to their children, and if they can,
they will give their daughter the husband of her
choice. They remember what youth is — nay, they
themselves never grow old, I think ; they never
forget what once was to them now is to their children.
So if it be possible all may yet go well. Social
differences are not so great as with us, and the barrier
is easily overcome. I have often known servants in
a house marry the daughters, and be taken into the
family ; but, of course, sometimes things do not go
so smoothly. And then ? Well, then there is usually
204 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
an elopement, and a ten days' scandal ; and some-
times, too, there is an elopement for no reason at
all save that hot youth cannot abide the necessary
delay.
For life is short, and though to-day be to us, who
can tell for the morrow ? During the full moon
there is no night, only a change to silver light from
golden ; and the forest is full of delight. There are
wood-cutters' huts in the ravines where the water
falls, soft beds of torn bracken and fragrant grasses
where great trees make a shelter from the heat ; and
for food, that is easily arranged. A basket of rice
with a little salt-fish and spices is easily hidden in a
favourable place. You only want a jar to cook it,
and there is enough for two for a week ; or it is
brought day by day by some trusted friend to a
place previously agreed upon.
All up and down the forest there are flowers for
her hair, scarlet dak blossoms and orchid sprays and
jasmine stars ; and for occupation through the hours
each has a new world to explore full of wonderful
undreamt-of discoveries, lit with new light and
mysterious with roseate shadows, a world of ' beau-
tiful things made new ' for those forest children.
So that when the confidante, an aunt maybe or a
sister, meets them by the sacred fig-tree on the hill,
and tells them that all difficulties are removed, and
their friends called together for the marriage, can
you wonder that it is not without regret that they
WOMEN 205
fare forth from that enchanted land to ordinary life
again ?
It is, as I have said, not always the man who is
the proposer of the flight. Nay, I think indeed that
it is usually the girl. ' Men have more patience.'
I had a Burmese servant, a boy, who may have
been twenty, and he had been with me a year, and
was beginning- to be really useful. He had at last
grasped the idea that electro-plate should not be
cleaned with monkey-brand soap, and he could be
trusted not to put up rifle cartridges for use with a
double-barrelled gun ; and he chose this time to fall
in love with the daughter of the headman of a certain
village where I was in camp.
He had good excuse, for she was a delicious little
maiden with great coils of hair, and the voice of a
wood-pigeon cooing in the forest, and she was very
fond of him, without a doubt.
So one evening he came to me and said that he
must leave me — that he wanted to get married, and
could not possibly delay. Then I spoke to him with
all that depth of wisdom we are so ready to display
for the benefit of others. I pointed out to him that
he was much too young, that she was much too
young also — she was not eighteen — and that there
was absolutely nothing for them to marry on. I
further pointed out how ungrateful it would be of
him to leave me ; that he had been paid regularly
for a year, and that it was not right that now, when
2o6 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
he was at last able to do something besides destroy
my property, he should go away.
The boy listened to all I had to say, and agreed
with it all, and made the most fervent and sincere
promise to be wise ; and he went away after dinner
to see the girl and tell her, and when I awoke in the
morning my other servants told me the boy had not
returned.
Shortly afterwards the headman came to say that
his daughter had also disappeared. They had fled,
those two, into the forest, and for a week we heard
nothing. At last one evening, as I sat under the
great fig-tree by my tent, there came to me the
mother of the girl, and she sat down before me,
and said she had something of great importance to
impart : and this was that all had been arranged
between the families, who had found work for the
boy whereby he might maintain himself and his
wife, and the marriage was arranged. But the boy
would not return as long as I was in camp there,
for he was bitterly ashamed of his broken vows and
afraid to meet my anger. And so the mother begged
me to go away as soon as I could, that the young
couple might return. I explained that I was not
angry at all, that the boy could return without any
fear ; on the contrary, that I should be pleased to
see him and his wife. And, at the old lady's request,
I wrote a Burmese letter to that effect, and she went
away delighted.
WOMEN 207
They must have been In hiding close by, for it
was early next morning that the boy came into my
tent alone and very much abashed, and it was some
litde time before he could recover himself and talk
freely as he would before, for he was greatly
ashamed of himself
But, after all, could he help it ?
If you can imagine the tropic night, and the boy,
full of high resolve, passing up the village street,
now half asleep, and the girl, with shining eyes,
coming to him out of the hibiscus shadows, and
whispering in his ear words — words that I need not
say— if you imagine all that, you will understand
how it was that I lost my servant.
They both came to see me later on in the day
after the marriage, and there was no bashful ness
about either of them then. They came hand-in-
hand, with the girl's father and mother and some
friends, and she told me it was all her fault : she
could not wait.
' Perhaps,' she said, with a little laugh and a side-
glance at her husband— ' perhaps, if he had gone
with the thakin to Rangoon, he might have fallen in
love with someone there and forgotten me ; for I
know they are very pretty, those Rangoon ladies, and
of better manners than I, who am but a jungle girl.'
And when I asked her what it was like in the
forest, she said it was the most beautiful place in all
the world.
2o8 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
Things do not always go so well. Parents may
be obdurate, and flight be impossible ; or even her
love may not be returned, and then terrible things
happen. I have held, not once nor twice alone,
inquests over the bodies, the fair, innocent bodies,
of quite young girls who died for love. Only that,
because their love was unreturned ; and so the sore
little heart turned in her trouble to the great river,
and gave herself and her hot despair to the cold
forgetfulness of its waters.
They love so greatly that they cannot face a world
where love is not. All the country is full of the
romance of love — of love passionate and great as
woman has ever felt. It seems to me here that woman
has something of the passions of man, not only the
enduring affection of a woman, but the hot love and
daring of a man. It is part of their heritage, per-
haps, as a people in their youth. One sees so much
of it, hears so much of it, here. I have seen a grirl
in man's attire killed in a surprise attack upon an
insurgent camp. She had followed her outlawed
lover there, and in the melee she caught up sword
and gun to fight by his side, and was cut down
through neck and shoulder ; for no one could tell in
the early dawn that it was a girl.
She died about an hour afterwards, and though I
have seen many sorrowful things in many lands, in
war and out of it, the memory of that dying girl,
held up by one of the mounted police, sobbing out
WOMEN 209
her life beneath the wild forest shadow, with
no one of her sex, no one of her kin to help
her, comes back to me as one of the saddest and
stranofest.
Her lover was killed in action some time later
fighting- against us, and he died as a brave man
should, his face to his enemy. He played his game,
he lost, and paid ; but the girl ?
1 have seen and heard so much of this love of
women and of its tragedies. Perhaps it is that to
us it is usually the tragedies that are best remem-
bered. Happiness is void of incident. And this
love may be, after all, a good thing. But I do not
know. Sometimes I think they would be happier
if they could love less, if they could take love more
quietly, more as a matter of course, as something
that has to be gone through, as part of a life's train-
ing ; not as a thing that swallows up all life and
death and eternity in one passion.
In Burmese the love-songs are in a short, sweet
rhythm, full of quaint conceits and word-music. I
cannot put them into English verse, or give the
flow of the originals in a translation. It always
seems to me that Don Quixote was right when he
said that a translation was like the wrong side of an
embroidered cloth, giving the design without the
beauty. But even in the plain, rough outline of a
translation there is beauty here, I think :
14
iio THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
From a Man to a Girl.
The moon wooed the lotus in the night, the lotus
was wooed by the moon, and my sweetheart is their
child. The blossom opened In the night, and she
came forth ; the petals moved, and she was born.
She is more beautiful than any blossom ; her face
is as delicate as the dusk ; her hair is as night falling^
over the hills ; her skin is as bright as the diamond.
She is very full of health, no sickness can come near
her.
When the wind blows I am afraid, when the
breezes move I fear. I fear lest the south wind
take her, I tremble lest the breath of evening woo
her from me — so light is she, so graceful.
Her dress is of gold, even of silk and gold, and
her bracelets are of fine gold. She hath precious
stones in her ears, but her eyes, what jewels can
compare unto them ?
She is proud, my mistress ; she is very proud, and
all men are afraid of her. She is so beautiful and
so proud that all men fear her.
In the whole world there is none anywhere that
can compare unto her.
[211 ]
CHAPTER XV.
WOMEN II.
'The husband is lord of the wife.'
Laws of Manu.
Marriage is not a religious ceremony among the
Burmese. Religion has no part in it at all ; as
religion has refrained from interfering with Govern-
ment, so does it in the relations of man and wife.
Marriage is purely a worldly business, like entering
into partnership ; and religion, the Buddhist religion,
has nothing to do with such things. Those who
accept the teachings of the great teacher in all their
fulness do not marry.
Indeed, marriage is not a ceremony at all. It is
strange to find that the Burmese have actually no
necessary ceremonial. The Laws of Manu, which
are the laws governing all such matters, make no
mention of any marriage ceremony ; it is, in fact,
a status. Just as two men may go into partnership
in business without executing any deed, so a man
and a woman may enter into the marriage state
14 — 2
212 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
without undergoing any form. Amongst the richer
Burmese there is, however, sometimes a ceremony.
Friends are called to the wedding, and a ribbon
is stretched round the couple, and then their hands
are clasped ; they also eat out of the same dish.
All this is very pretty, but not at all necessary.
It is, indeed, not a settled point in law what con-
stitutes a marriage, but there are certain things that
will render it void. For instance, no marriage can
be a marriage without the consent of the girl's
parents if she be under age, and there are certain
other conditions which must be fulfilled.
But although there be this doubt about the actual
ceremony of marriage, there is none at all about the
status. There is no confusion between a woman
who Is married and a woman who Is not. The con-
dition of marriage is well known, and it brings the
parties under the laws that pertain to husband and
wife. A woman not married does not, of course,
obtain these privileges ; there is a very strict line
between the two.
Amongst the poorer people a marriage is frequently
kept secret for several days. The great pomp and
ceremony which with us, and occasionally with a
few rich Burmese, consecrate a man and a woman to
each other for life, are absent at the greater number
of Burmese marriages ; and the reason they tell me
is that the girl Is shy. She does not like to be
stared at, and wondered at, as a maiden about to
WOMEN 213
be a wife ; it troubles her that the affairs of her
heart, her love, her marriage, should be so public.
The young men come at night and throw stones
upon the house roof, and demand presents from the
bridegroom. He does not mind giving the presents ;
but he, too, does not like the publicity. And so
marriage, which is with most people a ceremony
performed in full daylight with all accessories of
display, is with the Burmese generally a secret.
Two or three friends, perhaps, will be called quietly
to the house, and the man and woman will eat
together, and thus become husband and wife. Then
they will separate again, and not for several days, or
even weeks perhaps, will it be known that they are
married ; for it is seldom that they can set up house
for themselves just at once. Often they will marry
and live apart for a time with their parents. Some-
times they will go and live together with the man's
parents, but more usually with the girl's mother.
Then after a time, when they have by their exer-
tions made a little money, they build a house and
go to live there ; but sometimes they will live on
with the girl's parents for years.
You see a girl does not change her name when
she marries, nor does she wear any sign of marriage,
such as a ring. Her name is always the same, and
there is nothing to a stranger to denote whether she
be married or not, or whose wife she is ; and she
keeps her property as her own. Marriage does not
214 1'HE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
confer upon the husband any power over his wife's
property, either what she brings with her, what she
earns, or what she inherits subsequently ; it all
remains her own, as does his remain his own. But
usually property acquired after marriage is held
jointly. You will inquire, for instance, who is the
owner of this garden, and be told Maung Han, Ma
Shwe, the former being the husband's name and the
latter the wife's. Both names are used very frequently
in business and in legal proceedings, and indeed it is
usual for both husband and wife to sign all deeds
they may have occasion to execute. Nothing more
free than a woman's position in the marriage state
can be imagined. By law she is absolutely the
mistress of her own property and her own self ; and
if it usually happens that the husband is the head of
the house, that is because his nature gives him that
position, not any law.
With us marriage means to a girl an utter breaking
of her old ties, the beginning of a new life, of new
duties, of new responsibilities. She goes out into a
new and unknown world, full of strange facts, leaving
one dependence for another, the shelter of a father
for the shelter of a husband. She has even lost her
own name, and becomes known but as the mistress
of her husband ; her soul is merged in his. But in
Burma it is not so at all. She is still herself, still
mistress of herself, an equal partner for life.
I have said that the Burmese have no ideals, and
WOMEN 215
this is true ; but in the Laws of Manu there are laid
down some of the requisite qualities for a perfect
wife. There are seven kinds of wife, say the Laws
of Manu : a wife like a thief, like an enemy, like a
master, like a friend, like a sister, like a mother, like
a slave. The last four of these are good, but the
last is the best, and these are some of her qualities :
' She should fan and soothe her master to sleep,
and sit by him near the bed on which he lies. She
will fear and watch lest anything should disturb him.
Every noise will be a terror to her ; the hum of a
mosquito as the blast of a trumpet ; the fall of a leaf
without will sound as loud as thunder. Even she
will guard her breath as it passes her lips to and
fro, lest she awaken him whom she fears.
' And she will remember that when he awakens
he will have certain wants. She will be anxious
that the bath be to his custom, that his clothes are
as he wishes, that his food is tasteful to him. Always
she will have before her the fear of his anger.'
It must be remembered that the Laws of Manu are
of Indian origin, and are not totally accepted by the
Burmese. I fear a Burmese girl would laugh at this
ideal of a wife. She would say that if a wife were
always afraid of her husband's wrath, she and he,
too, must be poor things. A household is ruled by
love and reverence, not by fear. A girl has no idea
when she marries that she is going to be her husband's
slave, but a free woman, yielding to him in those
2i6 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
things in which he has most strength, and taking
her own way in those things that pertain to a
woman. She has a very keen idea of what things
she can do best, and what things she should leave
to her husband. Long experience has taught her
that there are many things she should not interfere
with ; and she knows it is experience that has proved
it, and not any command. She knows that the reason
women are not supposed to interfere in public affairs
is because their minds and bodies are not fitted for
them. Therefore she accepts this, in the same way
as she accepts physical inferiority, as a fact against
which it is useless and silly to declaim, knowing that
it is not men who keep her out, but her own unfitness.
Moreover, she knows that it is made good to her in
other ways, and thus the balance is redressed. You
see, she knows her own strength and her own weak-
ness. Can there be a more valuable knowledge for
anyone than this }
In many ways she will act for her husband with
vigour and address, and she is not afraid of appearing
in his name or her own in law courts, for instance, or
in transacting certain kinds of business. She knows
that she can do certain business as well as or better
than her husband, and she does it. There is nothing
more remarkable than the way in which she makes
a division of these matters in which she can act for
herself, and those in which, if she act at all, it is for
her husband.
WOMEN 217
Thus, as I have said, she will, as regards her own
property or her own business, act freely in her own
name, and will also frequently act for her husband
too. They will both sign deeds, borrow money on
joint security, lend money repayable to them jointly.
But in public affairs she will never allow her name
to appear at all. Not that she does not take a keen
interest in such things. She lives in no world
apart ; all that affects her husband interests her as
keenly as it does him. She lives in a world of men
and women, and her knowledge of public affairs, and
her desire and powers of influencing them, is great.
But she learnt long ago that her best way is to act
through and by her husband, and that his strength
and his name are her bucklers in the fight. Thus
women are never openly concerned in any political
matters. How strong their feeling is can better be
illustrated by a story than in any other way.
In 1889 I was stationed far away on the north-
west frontier of Burma, in charge of some four
thousand square miles of territory which had been
newly incorporated. I went up there with the first
column that ever penetrated that country, and I
remained there when, after the partial pacification
of the district, the main body of the troops were
withdrawn. It was a fairly exciting place to live in.
To say nothing of the fever which swept down men
in batches, and the trans-frontier people who were
always peeping over to watch a good opportunity
218 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
for a raid, my own charge simply swarmed with
armed men, who seemed to rise out of the very
ground — so hard was it to follow their movements
— attack anywhere they saw fit, and disappear as
suddenly. There was, of course, a considerable
force of troops and police to suppress these in-
surgents, but the whole country was so roadless, sq
unexplored, such a tangled labyrinth of hill and
forest, dotted with sparse villages, that it was often
quite impossible to trace the bands who committed
these attacks ; and to the sick and weary pursuers
it sometimes seemed as if we should never restore
peace to the country.
The villages were arranged in groups, and over
each group there was a headman with certain
powers and certain duties, the principal of the latter
being to keep his people quiet, and, if possible, pro-
tect them from insurgents.
Now, it happened that among these headmen was
one named Saw Ka, who had been a free-lance in
his day, but whose services were now enlisted on
the side of order — or, at least, we hoped so. He
was a fighting-man, and rather fond of that sort of
exercise ; so that I was not much surprised one day
when I got a letter from him to say that his villagers
had pursued and arrested, after a fight, a number of
armed robbers, who had tried to lift some of the
village cattle. The letter came to me when I was in
my court-house, a tent ten feet by eight, trying a case.
WOMEN 219
So, saying I would see Saw Ka's people later, and
giving orders for the prisoners to be put in the lock-
up, I went on with my work. When my case was
finished, I happened to notice that among those
sitting and waiting without my tent-door was Saw
Ka himself, so I sent to call him in, and I compli-
mented him upon his success. ' It shall be re-
ported,' I said, ' to the Commissioner, who will, no
doubt, reward you for your care and diligence in the
public service.'
As I talked I noticed that the man seemed rather
bewildered, and when I had finished he said that he
really did not understand. He was aware, he added
modesdy, that he was a diligent headman, always
active in good deeds, and a terror to dacoits and
other evil-doers ; but as to these particular robbers
and this fighting he was a little puzzled.
I was considerably surprised, naturally, and I
took from the table the Burmese letter describing
the affair. It began, ' Your honour, I, Maung Saw
Ka, headman,' etc., and was in the usual style. I
handed it to Saw Ka, and told him to read it. As
he read his wicked black eyes twinkled, and when
he had finished he said he had not been home for a
week.
' I came in from a visit to the river,' he said,
' where I have gathered for your honour some
private information. I had not been here five
minutes before I was called in. All this the letter
2 20 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
speaks- of is news to me, and must have happened
while I was away.'
' Then, who wrote the letter ?' I asked.
' Ah !' he said, ' I think I know ; but I will go
and make sure.'
Then Saw Ka went to find the guard who had
come in with the prisoners, and I dissolved court
and went out shooting. After dinner, as we sat
round a great bonfire before the mess, for the nights
were cold, Saw Ka and his brother came to me,
and they sat down beside the fire and told me all
about it.
It appeared that three days after Saw Ka left his
village, some robbers came suddenly one evening
to a small hamlet some two miles away and looted
from there all the cattle, thirty or forty head, and
went off with them. The frightened owners came
in to tell the headman about it, and in his absence
they told his wife. And she, by virtue of the order
of appointment as headman, which was in her
hands, ordered the villagers to turn out and follow
the dacoits. She issued such government arms as
she had in the house, and the villagers went and
pursued the dacoits by the cattle tracks, and next
day they overtook them, and there was a fight.
When the villagers returned with the catde and the
thieves, she had the letter written to me, and the
prisoners were sent in, under her husband's brother,
with an escort. Everything was done as well, as
WOMEN
221
-successfully, as if Saw Ka himself had been present,
But if it had not been for the accident of Saw Ka's
sudden appearance, I should probably never have
known that this exploit was due to his wife ; for she
was acting for her husband, and she would not have
been pleased that her name should appear.
' A good wife,' I said to Saw Ka.
' Like many,' he answered.
But in her own line she has no objection to
publicity. I have said that nearly all women work,
and that is so. Married or unmarried, from the age
of sixteen or seventeen, almost every woman has
some occupation besides her own duties. In the
higher classes she will have property of her own to
manage ; in the lower classes she will have some
trade. I cannot find that in Burma there have ever
been certain occupations told off for women in which
they may work, and others tabooed to them. As
there is no caste for the men, so there is none for
the women. They have been free to try their
hands at anything they thought they could excel in.
without any fear of public opinion. But neverthe-
less, as is inevitable, it has been found that there
are certain trades in which women can compete
successfully with men, and certain others in which
they cannot. And these are not quite the same as
in the West. We usually consider sewing to be a
feminine occupation. In Burma, there being no
elaborately cut and trimmed garments, the amount
222 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
of sewing done is small, but that is usually done
by men. Women often own and use small hand-
machines, but the treadles are always used by men
only. As I am writing, my Burmese orderly is
sitting in the garden sewing his jacket. He is
usually sewing when not sent on messages. He
seems to sew very well.
Weaving is usually done by women. Under
nearly every house there will be a loom, where the
wife or daughter weaves for herself or for sale.
But many men weave also, and the finest silks are
all woven by men. I once asked a woman why
they did not weave the best silks, instead of leaving
them all to the men.
' Men do them better,' she said, with a laugh.
* I tried once, but I cannot manage that embroidery.'
They also work in the fields — light work, such as
weeding and planting. The heavy work, such as
ploughing, is done by men. They also work on
the roads carrying things, as all Oriental women do.
It is curious that women carry always on their heads,
men always on their shoulders. I do not know why.
But the great occupation of women is petty
trading. I have already said that there are few
large merchants among the Burmese. Nearly all
the retail trade is small, most of it is very small
indeed, and practically the whole of it is in the hands
of the women.
Women do not often succeed in any wholesale
WOMEN 223
trade. They have not, I think, a wide enough
grasp of affairs for that. Their views are always
somewhat Hmited ; they are too pennywise and pound-
foolish for big businesses. The small retail trade,
gaining a penny here and a penny there, just suits
them, and they have almost made it a close profession.
This trade is almost exclusively done in bazaars.
In every town there is a bazaar, from six till ten
each morning. When there is no town near, the
bazaar will be held on one day at one village and on
another at a neighbouring one. It depends on the
density of population, the means of communication,
and other matters. But a bazaar within reach there
must always be, for it is only there that most articles
can be bought. The bazaar is usually held in a
public building erected for the purpose, and this
may vary from a great market built of brick and
iron to a small thatched shed. Sometimes, indeed,
there is no building at all, merely a space of beaten
ground.
The great bazaar in Mandalay is one of the sights
of the city. The building in which it is held is the
property of the municipality, but is leased out. It
is a series of enormous sheds, with iron roofs and
beaten earth floor. Each trade has a shed or sheds
to itself There is a place for rice-sellers, for butchers,
for vegetable-sellers, for the vendors of silks, of
cottons, of sugar and spices, of firewood, of jars, of
fish. The butchers are all natives of India. I have
224 'THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
explained elsewhere why this should be. The fire-
wood-sellers will mostly be men, as will also the large
rice-merchants, but nearly all the rest are women.
You will find the sellers of spices, fruit, veo^etables,
and other such matters seated in long rows, on mats
placed upon the ground. Each will have a square
of space allotted, perhaps six feet square, and there
she will sit with her merchandise in a basket or
baskets before her. For each square they will pay
the lessee a halfpenny for the day, which is only
three hours or so. The time to go is in the morn-
ing from six till eight, for that is the busy time.
Later on all the stalls will be closed, but in the early
morning the market is thronged. Every house-
holder is then buying his or her provisions for the
day, and the people crowd in thousands round the
sellers. Everyone is bargaining and chaffing and
laughing, both buyers and sellers ; but both are
very keen, too, on business.
The cloth and silk sellers, the large rice-merchants,
and a few other traders, cannot carry on business
sitting on a mat, nor can they carry their wares to
and fro every day in a basket. For such there are
separate buildings or separate aisles, with wooden
stalls, on either side of a gangway. The wooden
floor of the stalls is raised two to three feet, so that
the buyer, standing on the ground, is about on a
level with the seller sitting in the stall. The stall
will be about eight feet by ten, and each has at the
WOMEN 225
back a strong lock-up cupboard or wardrobe, where
the wares are shut at night ; but in the day they will
be taken out and arranged daintily about the girl-
seller. Home-made silks are the staple— silks in
checks of pink and white, of yellow and orange, of
indigo and dark red. Some are embroidered in silk,
in silver, or in gold ; some are plain. All are thick
and rich, none are glazed, and none are gaudy.
There will also be silks from Bangkok, which are
of two colours— purple shot with red, and orange
shot with red, both very beautiful. All the silks
are woven the size of the dress : for men, about
twenty-eight feet long and twenty inches broad ;
and for women, about five feet long and much
broader. Thus, there is no cutting off the piece.
The anas, too, which are the bottom pieces for a
woman's dress, are woven the proper size. There
will probably, too, be piles of showy cambric jackets
and gauzy silk handkerchiefs ; but often these are
sold at separate stalls.
But prettier than the silks are the sellers, for these
are nearly all girls and women, sweet and fresh in
their white jackets, with flowers in their hair. And
they are all delighted to talk to you and show you
their goods, even if you do not buy ; and they will
take a compliment sedately, as a girl should, and
they will probably charge you an extra rupee for it
when you come to pay for your purchases. So it is
never wise for a man, unless he have a heart of stone,
15
226 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
to go marketing for silks. He should always ask a
lady friend to go with him and do the bargaining,
and he will lose no courtesy thereby, for these
women know how to be courteous to fellow-women
as well as to fellow-men.
And in the provincial bazaars it is much the
same. There may be a few travelling merchants
from Rangoon or Mandalay, most of whom are
men ; but nearly all the retailers are women. Indeed,
speaking broadly, it may be said that the retail trade
of the country is in the hands of the women, and
they nearly all trade on their own account. Just as
the men farm their own land, the women own their
businesses. They are not saleswomen for others,
but traders on their own account ; and with the
exception of the silk and cloth branches of the trade,
it does not interfere with home-life. The bazaar
lasts but three hours, and a woman has ample time
for her home duties when her daily visit to the
bazaar is over ; she is never kept away all day in
shops and factories.
Her home-life is always the centre of her life ;
she could not neglect it for any other : it would
seem to her a losing of the greater in the less. But
the effect of this custom of nearly every woman
havinor a little business of her own has a areat
o o
influence on her life. It broadens her views; it
teaches her things she could not learn in the narrow
circle of home duties ; it skives her that tolerance
WOMEN 227
and understanding which so forcibly strikes every-
one who knows her. It teaches her to know her
own strength and weakness, and how to make the
best of each. Above all, by showing her the real
life about her, and how much beauty there is every-
where, to those whose eyes are not shut by conven-
tions, it saves her from that dreary, weary pessimism
that seeks its relief in fancied idealism, in art, in
literature, and in religion, and which is the curse
of so many of her sisters in other lands.
And yet, with all their freedom, Burmese women
are very particular in their conduct. Do not imagine
that young girls are allowed, or allow themselves, to
go about alone except on very frequented roads. I
suppose there are certain limits in all countries to
the freedom a woman allows herself, that is to say,
if she is wise. For she knows that she cannot
always trust herself ; she knows that she is weak
sometimes, and she protects herself accordingly. She
is timid, with a delightful timidity that fears, because
it half understands ; she is brave, with the bravery of
a girl who knows that as long as she keeps within
certain limits she is safe. Do not suppose that they
ever do, or ever can, allow themselves that freedom
of action that men have ; it is an impossibility.
Girls are very carefully looked after by their mothers,
and wives by their husbands ; and they delight in
observing the limits which experience has indicated
to them. There is a funny story which will illustrate
15—2
228 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
what I mean. A great friend of mine, an officer in
government service, went home not very long ago
and married, and came out again to Burma with his
wife. They settled down in a little up-country
station. His duties were such as obliged him to go
very frequently on tour far away from his home, and
he would be absent ten days at a time or more. So
when it came for the first time that he was obliged
to go out and leave his wife behind him alone in
the house, he gave his head-servant very careful
directions. This servant was a Burman who had
been with him for many years, who knew all his
ways, and who was a very good servant. He did
not speak English ; and my friend gave him strict
orders.
'The mistress,' he said, 'has only just come here
to Burma, and she does not know the ways of the
country, nor what to do. So you must see that no
harm comes to her in any way while I am in the
jungle.'
Then he gave directions as to what was to be
done in any eventuality, and he went out.
He was away for about a fortnight, and when he
returned he found all well. The house had not
caught fire, nor had thieves stolen anything, nor
had there been any difficulty at all. The servant
had looked after the other servants well, and my
friend was well pleased. But his wife complained.
' It has been very dull,' she said, ' while you were
WOMEN 229
away. No one came to see me ; of all the officers
here, not one ever called. I saw only two or three
ladies, but not a man at all.'
And my friend, surprised, asked his servant how
it was.
' Didn't anyone come to call ?' he asked.
' Oh yes,' the servant answered ; ' many gentle-
men came to call — the officers of the regiment and
others. But I told them the thakin was out, and
that the thakinma could not see anyone. I sent
them all away.'
And at the club that evening my friend was
questioned at to why in his absence no one was
allowed to see his wife. The whole station laughed
at him, but I think he and his wife laughed most of
all at the careful observances of Burmese etiquette by
the servant ; for it is the Burmese custom for a wife
not to receive in her husband's absence. Anyone
who wants to see her must stay outside or in the
veranda, and she will come out and speak to him.
It would be a grave breach of decorum to receive
visitors while her husband is out.
So you see that even a Burmese wpman is not
free from restrictions — restrictions which are merely
rules founded upon experience. No woman, no
man, can ever free herself or himself from the
bonds that even a young civilization demands. A
freedom from all restraint would be a return, not
only to savagery, but to the condition of animals —
230 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
nay, even animals are bound by certain conven-
tions.
The higher a civilization, the more conventions
are required ; and freedom does not mean an
absence of all rules, but that all rules should be
founded on experience and common-sense.
There are certain restrictions on a woman's
actions which must be observed as long as men are
men and women women. That the Burmese woman
never recognizes them unless they are necessary,
and then accepts the necessity as a necessity, is the
fact wherein her freedom lies. If at any time she
should recognize that a restriction was unnecessary,
she would reject it. If experience told her further
restrictions were required, she would accept them
without a doubt.
L 23^ ]
CHAPTER XVI.
WOMEN — III.
' For women are very tender-hearted.'
IVei/iandaya.
' You know, thakin,' said a man to me, ' that we say-
sometimes that women cannot attain unto the great
deliverance, that only men will come there. We
think that a woman must be born again as a man
before she can enter upon the way that leads to
heaven.'
' Why should that be so ?' I asked. ' I have
looked at the life of the Buddha, I have read the
sacred books, and I can find nothing about it.
What makes you think that ?'
And he explained it in this way : ' Before a soul
can attain deliverance it must renounce the world,
it must have purified itself by wisdom and medi-
tation from all the lust of the fiesh. Only those
who have done this can enter into the Great Peace.
And many men do this. The country is full of
monks, men who have left the world, and are trying
232 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
to follow in the path of the great teacher. Not all
these will immediately attain to heaven, for purifi-
cation is a very long process ; but they have entered
into the path, they have seen the light, if it be
even a long way off yet. They know whither they
would go. But women, see how few become nuns !
Only those who have suffered such shipwreck i'n
life that this world holds nothing more for then!
worth having become nuns. And they are very
few. For a hundred monks there is not one nun.
Women are too attached to their home, to their
fathers, their husbands, their children, to enter into
the holy life ; and, therefore, how shall they come
to heaven except they return as men ? Our
teacher says nothing about it, but we have eyes,
and we can see.'
And all this is true. Women have no desire for
the holy life. They cannot tear themselves away
from their home-life. If their passions are less than
those of men, they have even less command over
them than men have. Only the profoundest
despair will drive a woman to a renunciation of the
world. If on an average their lives are purer than
those of men, they cannot rise to the heights to
which men can. How many monks there are — how
few nuns. Not one to a hundred.
And yet in some ways women are far more
religious than men. If you go to the golden
pagoda on the hilltop and count the people kneeling
WOMEN 233
there doing honour to the teacher, you will find
they are nearly all women. If you go to the rest-
houses by the monastery, where the monks recite
the law on Sundays, you will find that the congre-
gations are nearly all women. If you visit the
monastery without the gate you will see many
visitors bringing little presents, and they will be
women.
' Thakin, many men do not care for religion at
all, but when a man does do so, he takes it very
seriously. He follows it out to the end. He be-
comes a monk, and surrenders the whole world.
But with women it is different. Many women,
nearly all women, will like religion, and none will
take it seriously. We mix it up with our home-life,
and our affections, and our worldly doings ; for we
like a little of everything.' So said a woman to me.
Is this always true ? I do not know, but it is very
true in Burma. Nearly all the women are religious,
they like to go to the monastery and hear the law,
they like to give presents to the monks, they like to
visit the pagoda and adore Gaudama the Buddha.
I am sure that if it were not for their influence the
laws against taking life and against intoxicants
would not be observed as stringently as they are.
So far they will go. As far as they can use the
precepts of religion and retain their home-life they
will do so ; as it was with Yathodaya so long ago,
so it is now. But when religion calls them and
234 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
says, ' Come away from the world, leave all that you
love, all that your heart holds good, for it is
naught ; see the light, and prepare your soul for
peace,' they hold back. This they cannot do ; it is
far beyond them. ' Thakin, we cannot do so. It
would seem to us terrible,' that is what they say.
A man who renounces the world is called ' the
great glory,' but not so a woman.
I have said that the Buddhist religion holds men
and women as equal. If women cannot observe its
laws as men do, it is surely their own fault if they
be held the less worthy.
And women themselves admit this. They honour
a man greatly who becomes a monk, not so a nun.
Nuns have but little consideration. And why?
Because what is good for a man is not good for a
woman ; and if, indeed, renunciation of the world be
the only path to the Great Peace, then surely it
must be true that women must be born again.
[ 235 J
CHAPTER XVII.
DIVORCE.
' They are to each other as a burning poison falling into a man's
eye. ' — Burmese saying.
I REMEMBER a night not so long ago ; It was in the
hot weather, and I was out in camp with my friend
the police-officer. It was past sunset, and the air
beneath the trees was full of luminous gloom, though
overhead a flush still lingered on the cheek of the
night. We were sitting in the veranda of a govern-
ment rest-house, enjoying the first coolness of the
coming night, and talking in disjointed sentences of
many things ; and there came up the steps of the
house into the veranda a woman. She came forward
slowly, and then sat down on the floor beside my
friend, and began to speak. There was a lamp
burning in an inner room, and a long bar of light
came through the door and lit her face. I could see
she was not good-looking, but that her eyes were
full of tears, and her face drawn with trouble. I
recognized who she was, the wife of the head-
236 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
constable in charge of the guard near by, a woman
I had noticed once or twice in the guard.
She spoke so fast, so fast ; the words fell over
each other as they came from her lips, for her heart
was very full.
I sat quite still and said nothing ; I think she
hardly noticed I was there. It was all about her
husband. Everything was wrong ; all had gone
crooked in their lives, and she did not know what
she could do. At first she could hardly tell what it
was all about, but at last she explained. For some
years, three or four years, matters had not been
very smooth between them. They had quarrelled
often, she said, about this thing and the other, little
things mostly ; and gradually the rift had widened
till it became very broad indeed.
'Perhaps,' she said, 'if I had been able to have
a child it would have been different.' But fate was
unkind and no baby came, and her husband became
more and more angry with her. ' And yet I did all
for the best, thakin ; I always tried to act for the
best. My husband has sisters at Henzada, and
they write to him now and then, and say, "Send
ten rupees," or "send five rupees," or even twenty
rupees. And I always say, " Send, send." Other
wives would say, " No. we cannot afford it ;" but I
said always, " Send, send." I have always done for
the best, always for the best.'
It was very pitiable to hear her opening her whole
DIVORCE 237
heart, such a sore troubled heart, like this. Her
words were full of pathos ; her uncomely face was
not beautified by the sorrow in it. And at last her
husband took a second wife.
' She is a girl from a village near ; the thakin
knows, Taungywa. He did not tell me, but I soon
heard of it ; and although I thought my heart would
break, I did not say anything. I told my husband,
" Bring her here, let us live all together ; it will be
best so." I always did for the best, thakin. So
he brought her, and she came to live with us a week
ago. Ah, thakin, I did not know ! She tramples
on me. My head is under her feet. My husband
does not care for me, only for her. And to-day,
this evening, they went out together for a walk, and
my husband took with him the concertina. As they
went I could hear him play upon it, and they walked
down through the trees, he playing and she leaning
upon him. I heard the music'
Then she began to cry bitterly, sobbing as if her
heart would break. And the sunset died out of the
sky, and the shadows took all the world and made
it gray and dark. No one said anything, only the
woman cried.
' Thakin,' she said at last, ' what am I to do .-*
Tell me.'
Then my friend spoke.
' You can divorce him,' he said ; ' you can go to
the elders and c^et a divorce. Won't that be best T
238 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
' But, thakin, you do not know. We are both
Christians ; we are married for ever. We were
both at the mission-school in Rangoon, and we
were married there, " for ever and for ever," so the
padre said. We are not married according to
Burmese customs, but according to your reHgion ;
we are husband and wife for ever.'
My friend said nothing. It seemed to him useless
to speak to her of the High Court, five hundred
miles away, and a decree nisi ; it would have been a
mockery of her trouble.
' Your husband had no right to take a second
wife, if you are Christians and married,' he said.
' Ah,' she answered, ' we are Burmans ; it is
allowed by Burmese law. Other officials do it.
What does my husband care that we were married
by your law? Here we are alone with no other
Christians near. But I would not mind so much,'
she went on, ' only she treads me under her feet.
And he takes her out and not me, who am the elder
wife, and he plays music to her ; and I did all for
the best. This trouble has come upon me, though
all my life I have always acted for the best.'
There came another footstep up the stair, and a
man entered. It was her husband. On his return
he had missed his wife, and guessed whither she
had gone, and had followed her. He came alone.
Then there was a sad scene, only restrained by
respect for my friend. I need not tell it. There
DIVORCE 239
was a man's side to the question, a strong one.
The wife had a terrible temper, a peevish, nagging,
maddening fashion of talking. She was a woman
very hard for a man to live with.
Does it matter much which was right or wrong,
now that the mischief was done ? They went away
at last, not reconciled. Could they be reconciled ?
I cannot tell. I left there next day, and have never
returned.
There they had lived for many years among their
own people, far away from the influence that had
come upon their childhood, and led them into strange
ways. And now all that was left of that influence
was the chain that bound them together. Had it
not been for that they would have been divorced
long ago ; for they had never agreed very well, and
both sides had bitter grounds for complaint. They
would have been divorced, and both could have
gone their own way. But now, what was to be
done }
That is one of my memories : this is another.
There was a girl I knew, the daughter of a man
who had made some money by trading, and when
the father died the property was divided according
to law between the girl and her brother. She was
a litde heiress in her way, owning a garden, where
grew many fruit-trees, and a piece of rice land. She
had also a share in a little shop which she managed,
and she- had many gold bracelets and fine diamond
240 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
earrings. She was much wooed by the young men
about there, and at last she married. He was a
young man, good-looking, a sergeant of police, and
for a time they were very happy. And then trouble
came. The husband took to bad ways. The know-
ledge that he could get money for nothing was too
much for him. He drank and he wasted her money,
and he neglected his work, and at last he was
dismissed from government employ. And his wife
got angry with him, and complained of him to the
neighbours ; and made him worse, though she was
at heart a good girl. Quickly he went from bad
to worse, until in a very short time, six months,
I think, he had spent half her little fortune. Then
she began to limit supplies — the husband did no
work at all — and in consequence he began to neglect
her ; they had many quarrels, and her tongue was
sharp, and matters got worse and worse until they
were the talk of the village. All attempts of the
headman and elders to restrain him were useless.
He became quarrelsome, and went on from one
thing to another, until at last he was suspected ot
being concerned in a crime. So then when all means
had failed to restore her husband to her, when they
had drifted far apart and there was nothing before
them but trouble, she went to the elders of the
village and demanded a divorce. And the elders
granted it to her. Her husband objected ; he did
not want to be divorced. He claimed this, and he
DIVORCE 241
claimed that, but it was all of no use. So the tie
that had united them was dissolved, as the love had
been dissolved long before, and they parted. The
man went away to Lower Burma. They tell me he
has become a cultivator and has reformed, and is
doing well ; and the girl is ready to marry again.
Half her property is gone, but half remains, and she
has still her little business. I think they will both
do well. But if they had been chained together,
what then ?
You see that divorce is free. Anyone can obtain
it by appearing before the elders of the village and
demanding it. A writing of divorcement is made
out, and the parties are free. Each retains his
or her own property, and that earned during
marriage is divided ; only that the party claiming
the divorce has to leave the house to the other —
that is the only penalty, and it is not always en-
forced, unless the house be joint property.
As religion has nothing to do with marriage,
neither has it with divorce. Marriage is a status,
a partnership, nothing more. But it is all that.
Divorce is a dissolution of that partnership. A
Burman would not ask, ' Were they married .^' but,
' Are they man and wife i^' And so with divorce, it
is a cessation of the state of marriage.
Elders tell me that women ask for divorce far
more than men do. ' Men have patience, and women
have not,' that is what they say. For every little
16
242 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
quarrel a woman will want a divorce. ' Thakin,
if we were to grant divorces every time a woman
came and demanded it, we should be doing nothing
else all day long. If a husband comes home to
find dinner not cooked, and speaks angrily, his wife
will rush to us in tears for a divorce. If he speaks
to another woman and smiles, if he does not give
his wife a new dress, if he be fond of going out
in the evening, all these are reasons for a breathless
demand for a divorce. The wives get cross and
run to us and cry, " My husband has been angry
with me. Never will I live w^th him again. Give
me a divorce." Or, "* See my clothes, how old they
are. I cannot buy any new dress. I will have a
divorce." And we say, "Yes, yes; it is very sad.
Of course, you must have a divorce ; but we cannot
give you one to-night. Go away, and come again
in three days or in four days, when we have more
time." And they go away, thakin, and they do
not return. Next day it is all forgotten. You
see, they don't know what they want ; they turn
with the wind — they have no patience.'
And yet sometimes they repent too late. Here is
another of my memories about divorce :
There was a man and his wife, cultivators, living
in a small village. The land that he cultivated
belonged to his wife, for she had inherited it from
her father, together with a house and a little money.
The man had nothing when he married her, but he
DIVORCE 243
was hardworking and honest and good-tempered,
and they kept themselves going comfortably enough.
But he had one foult : every now and then he would
drink too much. This was in Lower Burma, where
liquor shops are free to Burmans. In Upper Burma
no liquor can be sold to them. He did not drink
often. He was a teetotaler generally ; but once a
month, or once in two months, he would meet some
friends, and they would drink in good fellowship,
and he would return home drunk. His wife felt this
very bitterly, and when he would come into the
house, his eyes red and his face swollen, she would
attack him with bitter words, as women do. She
would upbraid him for his conduct, she would point
at him the finger of scorn, she would tell him in
biting words that he was drinking the produce of
her fields, of her inheritance ; she would even im-
pute to him, in her passion, worse things than these,
things that were not true. And the husband was
usually good-natured, and admitted his wrong, and
put up with all her abuse, and they lived happily til
the next time.
And after this had been going on for a few
years, instead of getting accustomed to her
husband, instead of seeing that if he had this fault
he had many virtues, and that he was just as good
a husband as she was a wife, or perhaps better, her
anger against him increased every time, till now she
would declare that she would abide it no longer
16—2
244 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
that he was past endurance, and she would have a
divorce ; and several times she even ran to the
elders to demand it. But the elders would put it
by. ' Let it wait,' they said. ' for a few days, and
then we will see ;' and by that time all was soothed
down again. But at last the end came. One night
she passed all bounds in her anger, using words
that could never be forgiven ; and when she de-
clared as usual that she must have a divorce, her
husband said : * Yes, we will divorce. Let there be
an end of it.' And so next day they went to the
elders both of them, and as both demanded the
divorce, the elders could not delay very long. A
few days' delay they made, but the man was firm,
and at last it was done. They were divorced. I
think the woman would have drawn back at the last
moment, but she could not. for very shame, and the
man never wav^ered. He was offended past forgive-
ness.
So the divorce was given, and the man left the
house and went to live elsewhere.
In a few days — a very few days — the wife sent
for him again. ' Would he return ?' And he
refused. Then she went to the headman and asked
him to make it up, and the headman sent for the
husband, who came.
The woman asked her husband to return.
' Come back,' she said, 'come back. I have been
wrong. Let us forgive. It shall never happen again.'
DIVORCE 245
But the man shook his head.
' No,' he said ; ' a divorce is a divorce. I do not
care to marry and divorce once a week. You were
always saying " I will divorce you, I will divorce
you." Now it is done. Let it remain.'
The woman was struck with grief.
' But I did not know,' she said ; ' I was hot-
tempered. I was foolish. But now I know. Ah !
the house is so lonely ! I have but two ears, I have
but two eyes, and the house is so large.'
But the husband refused again.
' What is done, is done. Marriage is not to be
taken off and put on like a jacket. I have made up
my mind.'
Then he went away, and after a little the woman
went away too. She went straight to the big,
lonely house, and there she hanged herself.
You see, she loved him all the time, but did not
know till too late.
Men do not often apply for divorce except for
very good cause, and with their minds fully made
up to obtain it. They do obtain it, of course.
With this facility for divorce, it is remarkable how
uncommon it is. In the villages and amongst
respectable Burmans in all classes of life it is a great
exception to divorce or to be divorced. The only
class amongst whom it is at all common is the class
of hangers-on to our Administration, the clerks and
policemen, and so on. I fear there is little that is
246 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
good to be said of many of them. It Is terrible to
see how demoralizing our contact Is to all sorts and
conditions of men. To be attached to our Adminis-
tration is almost a stigma of disreputableness. I
remember remarking once to a headman that a
certain official seemed to be quite regardless of
public opinion in his life, and asked him If th^
villagers did not condemn him. And the headman
answered with surprise : * But he is an official ;'
as If officials were quite super graimuaticaiu of
morals.
And yet this Is the class from whom we most of
us obtain our knowledge of Burmese life, whom we
see most of, whose opinions we accept as reflecting
the truth of Burmese thought. No wonder we are
so often astray.
Amongst these, the taking of second, and even
third, wives Is not at all uncommon, and naturally
divorce often follows. Among the great mass of
the people it Is very uncommon. I cannot give any
figures. There are no records kept of marriage or of
divorce. What the proportion is it is impossible to
even guess. I have heard all sorts of estimates,
none founded on more than imagination. I have
even tried to find out in small villages what the
number of divorces were In a year, and tried to
estimate from this the percentage. I made it from 2
to 5 per cent, of the marriages. But I cannot offer
these figures as correct for any large area. Probably
DIVORCE 247
they vary from place to place and from year to year.
In the old time the queen was very strict upon the
point. As she would allow no other wife to her
king, so she would allow no taking of other wives,
no abuse of divorce among her subjects. Whatever
her influence may have been in other ways, here it
was all for good. But the queen has gone, and
there is no one left at all. No one but the hangers-
on of whom I have spoken, examples not to be
followed, but to be shunned.
But of this there is no manner of doubt, that this
freedom of marriage and divorce leads to no license.
There is no confusion between marriage or non-
marriage, and even yet public opinion is a very
great check upon divorce. It is considered not
right to divorce your husband or your wife without
good — very good and sufficient cause. And what is
good and sufficient cause is very well understood.
That a woman should have a nagging tongue, that
a man should be a drunkard, what could be better
cause than this } The gravity of the offence lies in
whether it makes life unbearable together, not in the
name you may give it.
And the facility for div^orce has other effects too.
It makes a man and a woman very careful in their
behaviour to each other. The chain that binds
them is a chain of mutual forbearance, of mutual
endurance, of mutual love ; and if these be broken,
then is the bond gone. Marriage is no fetter about
248 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
a man or woman, binding both to that which they
may get to hate.
In the first Burmese war in 1825 there was a
man, an EngHshman, taken prisoner in Ava and
put in prison, and there he found certain Europeans
and Americans. And after a time, for fear of
attempts at escape, these prisoners were chainecj
together two and two. And he tells you, this
Englishman, how terrible this was, and of the hate
and repulsion that arose in your heart to your co-
bondsman. Before they were chained together
they lived in close neighbourhood, in peace and
amity ; but when the chains came it was far other-
wise, though they were no nearer than before.
They got to hate each other.
And this is the Burmese idea of marriage, that it
is a partnership of love and affection, and that when
these die, all should be over. An unbreakable
marriage appears to them as a fetter, a bond, some-
thing hateful and hate inspiring. You see, they are
a people who love to be free : they hate bonds and
dogmas of every description. It is always religion
that has made a bond of marriage, and here religion
has not interfered. Theirs is a religion of free men
and free women.
[ 249 ]
CHAPTER XVIII.
DRINK.
' The ignorant commit sins in consequence of drunkenness, and
also make others drunk.' — Acceptance ifito the Mo?ikhood.
The Buddhist religion forbids the use of all stimu-
lants, including opium and other drugs ; and in the
times of the Burmese rule this law was stringently
kept. No one was allowed to make, to sell, or to
consume, liquors of any description. That this law
was kept as firmly as it was was due, not to the
vigilance of the officials, but to the oreneral feelino-
of the people. It was a law springing from within,
and therefore effectual ; not imposed from without,
and useless. That there were breaches and evasions
of the law is only natural. The craving for some stimu-
lant amongst all people is very great — so great as to
have forced itself to be acknowledged and regulated
by most states, and made a great source of revenue.
Amongst the Burmans the craving is, I should say,
as strong as amongst other people ; and no mere
legal prohibition would have had much effect in a
250 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
country like this, full of jungle, where palms grow in
profusion, and where little stills might be set up
anywhere to distill their juice. But the feelings of
the respectable people and the influence of the
monks is very great, very strong ; and the Burmans
were, and in Upper Burma, where the old laws
remain in force, are still, an absolutely teetotal
people. No one who was in Upper Burma before
and just after the war but knows how strictly the
prohibition against liquor was enforced. The
principal offenders against the law were the high
officials, because they were above popular reach.
No bribe was so gratefully accepted as some whisky.
It was a sure step to safety in trouble.
A gentleman — not an Englishman — in the
employ of a company who' traded in Upper Burma
in the king's time told me lately a story about this.
He lived in a town on the Trrawaddy, where was
a local governor, and this governor had a head
clerk. This head clerk had a wife, and she was,. I
am told, very beautiful. I cannot write scandal,
and so will not repeat here what I have heard about
this lady and the merchant ; but one day his
Burman servant rushed into his presence and told
him breathlessly that the bailiff of the governor's
court was just entering the garden with a warrant
for his arrest, for, let us say, undue flirtation. The
merchant, horrified at the prospect of being lodged
in gaol and put in stocks, fled precipitately out of
DRINK 251
the back-gate and gained the governor's court.
The governor was in session, seated on a Httle dais,
and the merchant ran in and knelt down, as is the
custom, in front of the dais. He began to hurriedly
address the governor :
' My lord, my lord, an unjust complaint has been
made against me. Someone has abused your
justice and caused a warrant to be taken out against
me. I have just escaped the bailiff, and came to
your honour for protection. It is all a mistake. I
will explain. I '
But here the governor interposed. He bent
forward till his head was close to the merchant's
head and whispered :
* Friend, have you any whisky ?'
The merchant gave a sigh of relief.
' A case newly arrived is at your honour's dis-
posal,' he answered quickly. ' I will give orders for
it to be sent over at once. No, two cases — I have
two. And this charge is all a mistake.'
The governor waved his hand as if all explana-
tion were superfluous. Then he drew himself up,
and addressing the officials and crowd before him,
said :
' This is my good friend. Let no one touch him.'
And in an undertone to the merchant : ' Send it
soon.'
So the merchant went home rejoicing and sent
the whisky. And the lady ? Well, my story ends
252 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
there . with the governor and the whisky. No
doubt it was all a mistake about the lady, as the
merchant said. All officials were not so bad as
this, and many officials were as strongly against the
use of liquor, as urgent in the maintenance of the
rules of the religion, as the lowest peasant.
It was the same with opium : its use was absolutely
prohibited. Of course, Chinese merchants managed
to smuggle enough in for their own use, but they
had to bribe heavily to be able to do so, and the
people remained uncontaminated. ' Opium-eater,'
' gambler,' are the two great terms of reproach and
contempt.
It used to be a custom in the war-time — it has
died out now, I think — for officers of all kinds to
offer to Burmans who came to see them — officials, I
mean — a drink of whisky or beer on parting, just
as you would to an Englishman. It was often
accepted. Burmans are, as I have said, very fond
of liquor, and an opportunity like this to indulge in
a little forbidden drink, under the encouragement of
the great English soldier or official, was too much
for them. Besides, it would have been a discourtesy
to refuse. And so it was generally accepted. I do
not think it did much harm to anyone, or to any-
thing, except, perhaps, to our reputation.
I remember in 1887 that I went up into a semi-
independent state to see the prince. I travelled up
with two of his officials, men whom I had seen
DRINK 253
a good deal of for some months before, as his
messengers and spokesmen, about affairs on the
border. We travelled for three days, and came at
last to where he had pitched his camp in the forest.
He had built me a house, too, next to his camp,
where I put up. I had a long interview with him
about official matters — I need not tell of that here —
and after our business was over we talked of many
things, and at last I got up to take my leave. I
had seen towards the end that the prince had some-
thing on his mind, something he wanted to say, but
was afraid, or too shy, to mention ; and when I got
up, instead of moving away, I laughed and said :
' Well, what is it ? I think there is something
the prince wants to say before I go.'
And the prince smiled back awkwardly, still
desirous to have his say, still clearly afraid to do so,
and at last it was his wife who spoke.
'It is about the whisky,' she said. 'We know
that you drink it. That is your own business. We
hear, too, that it is the custom in the part of the
country you have taken for English officers to give
whisky and beer to officials who come to see you —
to our officials,' and she looked at the men who had
come up with me, and they blushed. ' The prince
wishes to ask you not to do it here. Of course, in
your own country you do what you like, but in the
prince's country no one is allowed to drink or to
smoke opium. It is against our faith. That is
254 'IHE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
what the prince wanted to say. The thakin will
not be offended if he is asked that here in our
country he will not tempt any of us to break our
religion.'
I almost wished I had not encouraged the prince
to speak. I am afraid that the embarrassment
passed over to my side. What could I say but that
I would remember, that I was not offended, tut
would be careful ? I had been lecturing the prince
about his shortcomings ; I had been warning him of
trouble to come, unless he mended his ways ; I had
been telling him wonderful things of Europe and
our power. I thought that I had produced an
impression of superiority — I was young then — but
when I left I had my doubts who it was that scored
most in that interview. However, I have remem-
bered ever since. I was not a frequent offender
before — I have never offered a Burman liquor
since.
This is a people that believes its religion without
a doubt, believes that it is not good to drink stimu-
lants, to smoke opium. There used to be tales told
long ago of King Thibaw, how he was a drunkard,
and had orgies in the palace. We know now that
there was not a word of truth in those reports, that
abstinence was enforced in the palace even more
strictly than elsewhere. How the reports ever arose
I could never ascertain — certainly not from Burman
sources. I have never met a Burman who knew of
DRINK 255
the palace who did not treat them with scorn. The
merchant I have been speaking of in my story about
the whisky told me that we English had invented
thetn. He was much in the palace in the old days,
knew most of the officials well ; he knows more of
the Burmans than any non-Burman I ever met, and
he says that there was not one word of truth in the
English reports that the king drank. P>om the
king down to the humblest peasant they were a
nation of total abstainers. That they may remain
so, that they may escape that terrible curse — that
most terrible curse in all the world — is what the
best Burmans hope and strive for.
[ 256 ]
CHAPTER XIX. .i^
MANNERS.
' Not where others fail, or do, or leave undone — the wise should
notice what himself has done, or left undone.' — Daviinapada.
A REMARKABLE trait of the Burmese character is
their unwillingness to interfere in other people's
affairs. Whether it arises from their religion of
self-culture or no, I cannot say, but it is in full
keeping with it. Every man's acts and thoughts
are his own affair, think the Burmans ; each man is
free to go his own way, to think his own thoughts,
to act his own acts, as long as he does not too much
annoy his neighbours. Each man is responsible for
himself and for himself alone, and there is no need
for him to try and be guardian also to his fellows.
And so the Burman likes to go his own way, to be
a free man within certain limits ; and the freedom
that he demands for himself, he will extend also to
his neighbours. He has a very great and wide
tolerance towards all his neighbours, not thinking
it necessary to disapprove of his neighbours' acts
MANNERS 257
because they may not be the same as his own,
never thinking it necessary to interfere with his
neighbours as long as the laws are not broken. Our
ideas that what habits are different to our habits
must be wrong, and being wrong, require correction
at our hands, is very far from his thoughts. He
never desires to interfere with anyone. Certain as
he is that his own ideas are best, he is contented
with that knowledge, and is not ceaselessly desirous
of proving it upon other people. And so a foreigner
may go and live in a Burman village, may settle
down there and live his own life and follow his own
customs in perfect freedom, may dress and eat and
drink and pray and die as he likes. No one will
interfere. No one will try and correct him ; no one
will be for ever insisting to him that he is an outcast,
either from civilization or from religion. The people
will accept him for what he is, and leave the matter
there. If he likes to change his ways and conform
to Burmese habits and Buddhist forms, so much the
better ; but if not, never mind.
It is, I think, a great deal owing to this habit of
mind that the manners of the Burmese are usually
so good, children in civilization as they are. There
is amongst them no rude inquisitiveness and no
desire to in any way circumscribe your freedom, by
either remark or act. Surely of all things that cause
trouble, nothing is so common amongst us as the
interference with each other's ways, as the needless
17
258 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
giving of advice. It seems to each of us that we
are responsible, not only for ourselves, but also for
everyone else near us ; and so if we disapprove of
any act, we are always in a hurry to express our
disapproval and to try and persuade the actor to
our way of thinking. We are for ever thinking of
others and trying to improve them ; as a nation
we try to coerce weaker nations and to convert
stronger ones, and as individuals we do the same.
We are sure that other people cannot but be better and
happier for being brought into our ways of thinking,
by force even, if necessary. We call it philanthropy.
But the Buddhist does not believe this at all.
Each man, each nation has, he thinks, enough to do
managing his or its own affairs. Interference, any
sort of interference, he is sure can do nothing but
harm. You cannot save a man. He can save him-
self; you can do nothing for him. You may force
or persuade him into an outer agreement with you,
but what is the value of that ? All dispositions that
are good, that are of any value at all, must come
spontaneously from the heart of man. First, he
must desire them, and then struggle to obtain them ;
by this means alone can any virtue be reached.
This, which is the key of his religion, is the key
also of his private life. Each man is a free man
to do what he likes, in a way that we have never
understood.
Even under the rule of the Burmese kings there
MANNERS 259
was the very widest tolerance. You never heard
of a foreigner being molested in any way, being
forbidden to live as he liked, being forbidden to
erect his own places of worship. He had the widest
freedom, as long as he infringed no law. The
Burmese rule may not have been a good one in
many ways, but it was never guilty of persecution,
of any attempt at forcible conversion, of any desire
to make such an attempt.
And this tolerance, this inclination to let each
man go his own way, is conspicuous even down to
the little events of life. It is very marked, even
in conversation, how little criticism is indulged in
towards each other, how there is an absolute absence
of desire to proselytize each other in any way. * It
is his way,' they will say, with a laugh, of any
peculiar act of any person ; ' it is his way. What
does it matter to us ?' Of all the loveable qualities
of the Burmese, and they are many, there are none
greater than these — their light-heartedness and their
tolerance.
A Burman will always assume that you know
your own business, and will leave you alone to do
it. How great a boon this is I think we hardly can
understand, for we have none of it. And he carries
it to an extent that sometimes surprises us.
Suppose you are walking along a road and there
is a broken bridge on the way, a bridge that you
might fall through. No one will try and prevent
26o THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
you going. Any Burman who saw you go will, if
he think at all about it, give you the credit for
knowing what you are about. It will not enter into
his head to go out of his way to give you advice
about that bridge. If you ask him he will help you
all he can, but he will not volunteer ; and so if you
depend on volunteered advice, you may fall through
the bridge and break your neck, perhaps.
At first this sort of thing seems to us to spring
from laziness or from discourtesy. It is just the
reverse of this latter ; it is excess of courtesy that
assumes you to be aware of what you are about, and
capable of judging properly.
You may get yourself into all sorts of trouble, and
unless you call out no one will assist you. They
will suppose that if you require help you will soon
ask for it. You could drift all the way from Bhamo
to Rangoon on a log, and I am sure no one would
try to pick you up unless you shouted for help. Let
anyone try to drift down from Oxford to Richmond,
and he will be forcibly saved every mile of his
journey, I am sure. The Burman boatmen you
passed would only laugh and ask how you were
getting on. The English boatman would have you
out of that in a jiffy, saving you despite yourself.
You might commit suicide in Burma, and no one
would stop you. ' It is your own look-out,' they
would say ; ' if you want to die why should we
prevent you } What business is it of ours T
MANNERS 26i
Never believe for a moment that this is cold-
heartedness. Nowhere is there any man so kind-
hearted as a Burman, so ready to help you, so
hospitable, so charitable both in act and thought.
It is only that he has another way of seeing these
things to what we have. He would resent as the
worst discourtesy that which we call having a friendly
interest in each other's doings. Volunteered advice
comes, so he thinks, from pure self-conceit, and is
intolerable ; help that he has not asked for conveys
the assumption that he is a fool, and the helper ever
so much wiser than he. It is in his eyes simply a
form of self-assertion, an attempt at governing other
people, an infringement of good manners not to be
borne.
Each man is responsible for himself, each man is
the maker of himself Only he can do himself good
by good thought, by good acts ; only he can hurt
himself by evil intentions and deeds. Therefore
in your intercourse with others remember always
yourself, remember that no one can injure you but
yourself ; be careful, therefore, of your acts for your
own sake. For if you lose your temper, who is the
sufferer? Yourself; no one but yourself. If you
are guilty of disgraceful acts, of discourteous words,
who suffers ? Yourself. Remember that ; remember
that courtesy and good temper are due from you to
everyone. What does it matter who the other person
be ? you should be courteous to him, not because he
262 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
deserves it, but because you deserve it. Courtesy-
is measured by the giver, not by the receiver. We
are apt sometimes to think that this continual care
of self is selfishness ; it is the very reverse. Self-
reverence is the antipode of self-conceit, of selfish-
ness. If you honour yourself, you will be careful
that nothing dishonourable shall come from you.
' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control ;' we,
too, have had a poet who taught this.
And so dignity of manner is very marked amongst
this people. It is cultivated as a gift, as the outward
sign of a good heart.
* A rough diamond ;' no Burman would under-
stand this saying. The value of a diamond is that
it can be -polished. As long as it remains in the
rough, it has no miore beauty than a lump of mud.
If your heart be good, so, too, will be your manners.
A good tree will bring forth good fruit. If the fruit
be rotten, can the tree be good ? Not so. If your
manners are bad, so, too, is your heart. To be
courteous, even tempered, to be tolerant and full
of sympathy, these are the proofs of an inward
goodness. You cannot have one without the other.
Outward appearances are not deceptive, but are
true.
Therefore they strive after even temper. Hot-
tempered as they are, easily aroused to wrath, easily
awakened to pleasure, men with the passions of a
child, they have very great command over them-
MANNERS 263
selves. They are ashamed of losing their temper ;
they look upon it as a disgrace. We are often
proud of it ; we think sometimes we do well to be
angry.
And so they are very patient, very long-suffering,
accepting with resignation the troubles of this world,
the kicks and spurns of fortune, secure in this, that
each man's self is in his own keeping. If there be
trouble for to-day, what can it matter if you do but
command yourself? If others be discourteous to
you, that cannot hurt you, if you do not allow your-
self to be discourteous in return. Take care of your
own soul, sure that in the end you will win, either
in this life or in some other, that which you deserve.
What you have made your soul fit for, that you will
obtain, sooner or later, whether it be evil or whether
it be good. The law of righteousness is for ever
this, that what a man deserves that he will obtain.
And so in the end, if you cultivate your soul with
unwearying patience, striving always after what is
good, purifying yourself from the lust of life, you
will come unto that lake where all desire shall be
washed away.
[ 264]
CHAPTER XX. '
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE.'
' Sooner shall the cleft rock reunite so as to make a whole, than
may he who kills any living being be admitted into our society ' —
Acceptance i7ito the Monkhood.
It is very noticeable throughout the bazaars of
Burma that all the beef butchers are natives of
India. No Burman will kill a cow or a bullock,
and no Burman will sell its meat. It is otherwise
with pork and fowls. Burmans may sometimes be
found selling these ; and fish are almost invariably
sold by the wives of the fishermen. During the
king's time, any man who was even found in
possession of beef was liable to very severe punish-
ment. The only exception, as I have explained
elsewhere, was in the case of the queen when ex-
pecting an addition to her family, and it was neces-
sary that she should be strengthened in all ways.
None, not even foreigners, were allowed to kill beef,
and this law was very stringently observed. Other
flesh and fish might, as far as the law of the country
went, be sold with impunity. You could not be
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 265
fined for killing and eating goats, or fowls, or pigs,
and these were sold occasionally. It is now ten
years since King Thibaw was overthrown, and
there is now no law against the sale of beef. And
yet, as I have said, no respectable Burman will
even now kill or sell beef. The law was founded
on the beliefs of the people, and though the law is
dead, the beliefs remain.
It is true that the taking of life is against
Buddhist commands. No life at all may be taken
by him who adheres to Buddhistic teaching.
Neither for sport, nor for revenge, nor for food,
may any animal be deprived of the breath that is in
it. And this is a command wonderfully well kept.
There are a few exceptions, but they are known
and accepted as breaches of the law, for the law
itself knows no exceptions. Fish, as I have said,
can be obtained almost everywhere. They are
caught in great quantities in the river, and are sold
in most bazaars, either fresh or salted. It is one of
the staple foods of the Burmese. But although they
will eat fish, they despise the fisherman. Not so
much, perhaps, as if he killed other living things,
but still, the fisherman is an outcast from decent
society. He will have to suffer great and terrible
punishment before he can be cleansed from the sins
that he daily commits. Notwithstanding this, there
are many fishermen in Burma.
A fish is a very cold-blooded beast. One must
266 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
be very hard up for something to love to have any
affection to spare upon fishes. They cannot be, or
at all events they never are, domesticated, and
most of them are not beautiful. I am not aware
that they have ever been known to display any
attachment to anyone, which accounts, perhaps, for
the comparatively lenient eye with which their
destruction is contemplated.
For with warm - blooded animals it is very
different. Cattle, as I have said, can never be
killed nor their meat sold by a Burman, and with
other animals the difficulty is not much less.
I was in Upper Burma for some months before
the war, and many a time I could get no meat at all.
Living in a large town among prosperous people, I
could get no flesh at all, only fish and rice and
vegetables. When, after much trouble, my Indian
cook would get me a few fowls, he would often
be waylaid and forced to release them. An old
woman, say, anxious to do some deed of merit,
would come to him as he returned triumphantly
home with his fowls and tender him money, and
beg him to release the fowls. She would give the
full price or double the price of the fowls ; she had
no desire to gain merit at another person's expense,
and the unwilling cook would be obliged to give up
the fowls. Public opinion was so strong he dare
not refuse. The money was paid, the fowls set
free, and I dined on tinned beef
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 267
And yet the villages are full of fowls. Why they
are kept I do not know. Certainly not for food. I
do not mean to say that an accidental meeting be-
tween a rock and a fowl may not occasionally
furnish forth a dinner, but this is not the object with
which they are kept — of this I am sure.
You would not suppose that fowls were capable
of exciting much affection, yet I suppose they are.
Certainly in one case ducks were. There is a
Burman lady I know who is married to an English-
man. He kept ducks. He bought a number of
ducklings, and had them fed up so that they might
be fat and succulent when the time came for them
to be served at table. They became very fine
ducks, and my friend had promised me one. I took
an interest in them, and always noticed their in-
creasing fatness when I rode that way. Imagine,
then, my disappointment when one day I saw that
all the ducks had disappeared.
I stopped to inquire. Yes, truly they were all
gone, my friend told me. In his absence his wife
had gone up the river to visit some friends, and had
taken the ducks with her. She could not bear, she
said, that they should be killed, so she took them
away and distributed them among her friends, one
here and one there, where she was sure they would
be well treated and not killed. When she returned
she was quite pleased at her success, and laughed at
her husband and me.
268 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
This same lady was always terribly distressed
when she had to order a fowl to be killed for her
husband's breakfast, even if she had never seen it
before. I have seen her, after telling the cook to
kill a fowl for breakfast, run away and sit down in
the veranda with her hands over her ears, and her
face the very picture of misery, fearing lest slie
should hear its shrieks. I think that this was the
one great trouble to her in her marriage, that her
husband would insist on eating fowls and ducks, and
that she had to order them to be killed.
And as she is, so are most Burmans. If there is
all this trouble about fowls, it can be imagined how
the trouble increases when it comes to goats or any
larger beasts. In the jungle villages meat of any
kind at all is never seen : no animals of any kind are
allowed to be killed. An officer travelling in the
district would be reduced to what he could carry
with him, if it were not for an Act of Government
obliging villages to furnish — on payment, of course
— supplies for officers and troops passing through.
The mere fact of such a law being necessary is
sufficient proof of the strength of the feeling against
taking^ life.
Of course, all shooting, either for sport or for
food, is looked upon as disgraceful. In many
jungle villages where deer abound there are one or
two hunters who make a living by hunting. But
they are disgraced men. They are worse than
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 269
fishermen, and they will have a terrible penalty to
pay for it all. It will take much suffering to wash
from their souls the cruelty, the blood-thirstiness,
the carelessness to suffering, the absence of com-
passion, that hunting must produce. ' Is there no
food in the bazaar, that you must go and take the
lives of animals ?' has been said to me many a time.
And when my house-roof was infested by sparrows,
who dropped grass and eggs all over my rooms, so
that I was obliged to shoot them with a little rifle,
this was no excuse. 'You should have built a
sparrow-cote,' they told me. 'If you had built a
sparrow-cote, they would have gone away and left
you in peace. They only wanted to make nests
and lay eggs and have little ones, and you went and
shot them.' There are many sparrow-cotes to be
seen in the villages.
I might give example after example of this sort,
for they happen every day. We who are meat-
eaters, who delight in shooting, who have a horror
of insects and reptiles, are continually coming Into
collision with the principles of our neighbours ; for
even harmful reptiles they do not care to kill.
Truly I believe It is a myth, the story of the
Burmese mother courteously escorting out of the
house the scorpion which had just bitten her baby.
A Burmese mother worships her baby as much as
, the woman of any other nation does, and I believe
there Is no crime she would not commit in its
2 70 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
behalf. But if she saw a scorpion walking about in
the fields, she would not kill it as we should. She
would step aside and pass on. ' Poor beast !' she
would say, ' why should I hurt it ? It never hurt
me.'
The Burman never kills insects out of sheer
brutality. If a beetle drone annoy ingly, he will
catch it in a handkerchief and put it outside, and so
with a bee. It is a great trouble often to get your
Burmese servants to keep your house free of ants
and other annoying creatures. If you tell them to
kill the insects they will, for in that case the sin falls
on you. Without special orders they would rather
leave the ants alone.
In the district in which I am now living snakes
are very plentiful. There are cobras and keraits,
but the most dreaded is the Russell's viper. He is
a snake that averages from three to four feet long,
and is very thick, with a big head and a stumpy
tail. His body is marked very prettily with spots
and blurs of light on a dark, grayish green, and he
is so like the shadows of the grass and weeds in a
dusty road, that you can walk on him quite unsus-
pectingly. Then he will bite you, and you die. He
comes out usually in the evening before dark, and
lies about on footpaths to catch the hom.e-coming
ploughman or reaper, and, contrary to the custom of
other snakes, he will not flee on hearing a footstep.
When anyone approaches he lies more still than
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 271
ever, not even a movement of his head betrayino-
him. He is so Hke the colour of the o-round. he
hopes he will be -passed unseen ; and he is slow and
lethargic in his movements, and so is easy to kill
when once detected. As a Burman said, 'If he
sees you first, he kills you ; if you see him first, you
kill him.'
In this district no Burman hesitates a moment in
killing a viper when he has the chance. Usually he
has to do it in self-defence. This viper is terribly
feared, as over a hundred persons a year die here
by his bite. He is so hated and feared that he
has become an outcast from the law that protects
all life.
But with other snakes it is not so. There is the
hamadryad, for instance. He is a great snake about
ten to fourteen feet long, and he is the only snake
that will attack you first. He is said always to do
so, certainly he often does. One attacked me once
when out quail shooting. He put up his great neck
and head suddenly at a distance of only five or six
feet, and was just preparing to strike, when 1 liter-
ally blew his head off with two charges of shot.
You would suppose he was vicious enough to be
included with the Russell's viper in the category of
the exceptions, but no. Perhaps he is too rare to
excite such fierce and deadly hate as makes the
Burman forget his law antl kill the viper. However
it may be, the Burman is not ready to kill the
272 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
hamadryad. A few weeks ago a friend of mine and
myself came across two little Burman boys carrying
a jar with a piece of broken tile over it. The lads
kept lifting up the tile and peeping in, and then
putting the tile on again in a great hurry, and their
actions excited our curiosity. So we called them to
come to us, and we looked into the jar. It was full
of baby hamadryads. The lads had found a nest of
them in the absence of the mother, who would have
killed them if she had been there, and had secured
all the little snakes. There were seven of them.
We asked the boys what they intended to do with
the snakes, and they answered that they would
show them to their friends in the village. ' And
then ?' we asked. And then they would let them
go in the water. My friend killed all the hama-
dryads on the spot, and gave the boys some coppers,
and we went on. Can you imagine this happening
anywhere else ? Can you think of any other school-
boys sparing any animal they caught, much less
poisonous snakes ? The extraordinary hold that
this tenet of their religion has upon the Burmese
must be seen to be understood. What I write will
sound like some fairy story, I fear, to my people at
home. It is far beneath the truth. The belief that
it is wrono- to take life is a belief with them as
Strong as any belief could be. I do not know any-
where any command, earthly or heavenly, that is
acted up to with such earnestness as this command
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 273
is amongst the Burmese, It is an abiding principle
of their daily life.
Where the command came from I do not know.
I cannot find any allusion to it in the life of the
great teacher. We know that he ate meat. It
seems to me that it is older even than he. It has
been derived both by the Burmese Buddhists and
the Hindus from a faith whose origin is hidden
in the mists of long ago. It is part of that far
older faith on which Buddhism was built, as was
Christianity on Judaism.
But if not part of his teaching — and though it is
included in the sacred books, we do not know how
much of them are derived from the Buddha himself —
it is in strict accordance with all his teaching. That
is one of the most wonderful points of Buddhism, it
is all in accordance ; there are no exceptions.
I have heard amongst Europeans a very curious
explanation of this refusal of Buddhists to take life.
' Buddhists,' they say, ' believe in the transmi-
gration of souls. They believe that when a man
dies his soul may go into a beast. You could not
expect him to kill a bull, when perchance his grand-
father's soul might inhabit there.' This is their
explanation, this is the way they put two and two
together to make five. They know that Buddhists
believe in transmigration, they know that Buddhists
do not like to take life, and therefore one is the
cause of the other.
18
2 74 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
I have mentioned this explanation to Burmans
while talking of the subject, and they have always
laughed at it. They had never heard of it before.
It is true that it is part of their great theory of life
that the souls of men have risen from being souls of
beasts, and that we may so relapse if we are not
careful. Many stories are told of cases that have
occurred where a man has been reincarnated as an
animal, and where what is now the soul of a man
used to live in a beast. But that makes no differ-
ence. Whatever a man may have been, or may be,
he is a man now ; whatever a beast may have been,
he is a beast now. Never suppose that a Burman
has any other idea than this. To him men are
men, and animals are animals, and men are far the
higher. But he does not deduce from this that
man's superiority gives him permission to illtreat or
to kill animals. It is just the reverse. It is because
man is so much higher than the animal that he can
and must observe towards animals the very greatest
care, feel for them the very greatest compassion, be
good to them in every way he can. The Burman's
motto should be Noblesse oblige; he knows the
meaning, if he knows not the words.
For the Burman's compassion towards animals
goes very much farther than a mere reluctance to
kill them. Although he has no command on the
subject, it seems to him quite as important to treat
animals well during their lives as to refrain from
NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 275
taking those lives. His refusal to take life he shares
with the Hindu ; his perpetual care and tenderness
to all living creatures is all his own. And here I
may mention a very curious contrast, that whereas
in India the Hindu will not take life and the
Mussulman will, yet the Mussulman is by reputation
far kinder to his beasts than the Hindu. Here the
Burman combines both qualities. He has all the
kindness to animals that the Mahommedan has, and
more, and he has the same horror of taking; life that
the Hindu has.
Coming from half-starved, over-driven India, it is
a revelation to see the animals in Burma. The
village ponies and cattle and dogs in India are
enough to make the heart bleed for their sordid
misery, but in Burma they are a delight to the eye.
They are all fat, every one of them — fat and com-
fortable and impertinent ; even the ownerless dogs
are well fed. I suppose the indifference of the
ordinary native of India to animal suffering comes
from the evil of his own lot. He is so very poor,
he has such hard work to find enough for himself
and his children, that his sympathy is all used up.
He has none to spare. He is driven into a dumb
heardessness, for I do not think he is actually cruel.
The Burman is full of the greatest sympathy
towards animals of all kinds, of the greatest under-
standing of their ways, of the most humorously
good-natured attitude towards them. Looking at
iS— 2
2 76 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
them from his manhood, he has no contempt for
them ; but the gentle toleration of a father to very
little children who are stupid and troublesome often,
but are very lovable. He feels himself so far above
them that he can condescend towards them, and
forbear with them.
His ponies are pictures of fatness and impertinence
and go. They never have any vice because the
Burman is never cruel to them ; they are never
well trained, partly because he does not know how
to train them, partly because they are so near the
aboriginal wild pony as to be incapable of very
much training. But they are willing ; they will go
for ever, and are very strong, and they have admirable
constitutions and tempers. You could not make a
Burman ill-use his pony if you tried, and I fancy that
to break these little half-wild ponies to go in cabs
in crowded streets requires severe treatment. At
least, I never knew but one hackney-carriage driver
either in Rangoon or Mandalay who was a Burman,
and he very soon gave it up. He said that the work
was too heavy either for a pony or a man. I think,
perhaps, it was for the safety of the public that he
resigned, for his ponies were the very reverse of
meek — which a native of India says a hackney-
carriage pony should be — and he drove entirely by
the light of Nature.
So all the drivers of gharries, as we call them, are
natives of India or half-breeds, and it is amongst
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 277
them that the work of the Society for the Preven-
tion of Cruelty to Animals principally lies. While
I was in Rangoon I tried a number of cases of over-
driving, of using ponies with sore withers and the
like. I never tried a Burman. Even in Rangoon,
which has become almost Indianized, his natural
humanity never left the Burman. As far as Bur-
mans are concerned, the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals need not exist. They are
kinder to their animals than even the members of
the Society could be. Instances occur every day ;
here is one of the most striking that I remember.
There is a town in Burma where there are some
troops stationed, and which is the headquarters of
the civil administration of the district. It is, or was
then, some distance from a railway-station, and it
was necessary to make some arrangement for the
carriage of the mails to and from the town and
station. The Post-office called for tenders, and at
length it was arranged through the civil authorities
that a coach should run once a day each way to
carry the mails and passengers. A native of India
agreed to take the contract — for Burmans seldom
or never care to take them — and he was to comply
with certain conditions and receive a certain subsidy.
There was a great deal of traffic between the
town and station, and it was supposed that the
passenger traffic would pay the contractor well, apart
from his mail subsidy. For Burmans are always
2 78 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
free with their money, and the road was long- and
hot and dusty. I often passed that coach as I rode.
I noticed that the ponies were poor, very poor, and
were driven a Httle hard, but I saw no reason for
interference. It did not seem to me that any cruelty
was committed, nor that the ponies were actually
unfit to be driven. I noticed that the driver used
his whip a good deal, but then some ponies require
the whip. I never thought much about it, as I
always rode my own ponies, and they always shied
at the coach, but I should have noticed if there had
been anything remarkable. Towards the end of
the year it became necessary to renew the contract,
and the contractor was approached on the subject.
He said he was willing to continue the contract for
another year if the mail subsidy was largely increased.
He said he had lost money on that year's working.
When asked how he could possibly have lost con-
sidering the large number of people who were always
passing up and down, he said that they did not ride
in his coach. Only the European soldiers and a
few natives of India came with him. Officers had
their own ponies and rode, and the Burmans either
hired a bullock-cart or walked. They hardly ever
came in his coach, but he could not say what the
reason might be.
So an inquiry was made, and the Burmese were
asked why they did not ride on the coach. Were
the fares too high ? — was it uncomfortable ? But no,
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 279
it was for neither of these reasons that they left the
coach to the soldiers and natives of India. It was
because of the ponies. No Burman would care to
ride behind ponies who were treated as these ponies-
were — half fed, overdriven, whipped. It was- a misery
to see them ; it was twice a misery to drive behind
them. ' Poor beasts !' they said ; * you can see their
ribs, and when they come to the end of a stage they
are fit to fall down and die. They should be turned
out to graze.'
The opinion was universal. The Burmans pre-
ferred to spend twice or thrice the money and hire
a bullock-cart and go slowly, while the coach flashed
past them in a whirl of dust, or they preferred to
walk. Many and many times have I seen the road-
side rest-houses full of travellers halting for a few
minutes' rest. They walked while the coach came
by empty ; and nearly all of them could have afforded
the fare. It was a very striking instance of what
pure kind-heartedness will do, for there would have
been no religious command broken by going in the
coach. It was the pure influence of compassion
towards the beasts and refusal to be a party to such
hard-heartedness. And yet, as I have said, I do
not think the law could have interfered with success.
Surely a people who could act like this, have the
very soul of religion in their hearts, although the
act was not done in the name of religion.
All the animals — the cattle, the ponies, and the
28o THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
buffaloes — are so tame that it is almost an unknown
thing for anyone to get hurt.
The cattle are sometimes afraid of the white face
and strange attire of a European, but you can walk
through the herds as they come home in the evening
with perfect confidence that they will not hurt you.
Even a cow with a young calf will only eye ybu
suspiciously ; and with the Burmans even the huge
water buffaloes are absolutely tame. You can see
a herd of these great beasts, with horns six feet
across, come along under the command of a very
small boy or girl perched on one of their broad
backs. He flourishes a little stick, and issues his
commands like a general. It is one of the quaintest
imaginable sights to see this little fellow get off his
steed, run after a straggler, and beat him with his
stick. The buffalo eyes his master, whom he could
abolish with one shake of his head, submissively,
and takes the beating, which he probably feels about
as much as if a straw fell on him, good-humouredly.
The children never seem to come to grief. Buffaloes
occasionally charge Europeans, but the only place
where I have known of Burmans being killed by
buffaloes is in the Kale Valley. There the buffaloes
are turned out into the jungle for eight months in
the year, and are only caught for ploughing and
carting. Naturally they are quite wild ; in fact,
many of them are the offspring of wild bulls.
The Burmans, too, are very fond of dogs. Their
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 28 1
villages are full of dogs ; but, as far as I know, they
never use them for anything, and they are never
trained to do anything. They are supposed to be
useful as watch-dogs, but I do not think they are
very good even at that. I have surrounded a village
before dawn and never a dog barked, and I have
heard them bark all night at nothing.
But when a Burman sees a fox-terrier or any
English dog his delight is unfeigned. When we
first took Upper Burma, and such sights were rare,
half a village would turn out to see the little ' tail-
less ' dog trotting along after its master. And if the
terrier would ' beg,' then he would win all hearts
1 am not only referring to children, but to grown
men and women ; and then there is always some-
thing peculiarly childlike and frank in these children
of the great river.
Only to-day, as I was walking very early up the
bank of the river in the early dawn, I heard some
Burman boatmen discussing my fox-terrier. They
were about fifteen yards from the shore, poling their
boat up against the current, which is arduous work.
And as I passed them my little dog ran down the
bank and looked at them across the water, and they
saw her.
' See now,' said one man to another, pausing for
a moment with his pole in his hand — ' see the little
white dog with the brown face, how wise she looks !'
' And how pretty !' said a man steering in the
282 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
stern. . ' Come !' he cried, holding out his hand
to it.
But the dog only made a splash in the water
with her paws, and then turned and ran after me.
The boatmen laughed and resumed their poling,
and I passed on. In the still morning across the
still water I could hear every word, but I hardly
took any note ; I have heard it so often. Only
now when I come to write on this subject do I
remember.
It has been inculcated in us from childhood that
it is a manly thing to be indifferent to pain — not to
our own pain only, but to that of all others. To
be sorry for a hunted hare, to compassionate the
wounded deer, to shrink from torturing the brute
creation, has been accounted by us as namby-pamby
sentimentalism, not fit for man, fit only for a
squeamish woman. To the Burman it is one of the
highest of all virtues. He believes that all that
is beautiful in life is founded on compassion and
kindness and sympathy — that nothing of great
value can exist without them. Do you think that
a Burmese boy would be allowed to birds'-nest,
or worry rats with a terrier, or go ferreting- ? Not
so. These would be crimes.
That this kindness and compassion for animals
has very far-reaching results no one can doubt. If
you are kind to animals, you will be kind, too, to
your fellow-man. It is really the same thing, the
'NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 283
same feeling in both cases. If to be superior in
position to an animal justifies you in torturing it, so
it would do with men. If you are in a better
position than another man, richer, stronger, higher
in rank, that would — that does often in our minds —
justify ill-treatment and contempt. Our innate feel-
ing towards all that we consider inferior to ourselves
is scorn ; the Burman's is compassion. You can
see this spirit coming out in every action of their
daily life, in their dealings with each" other, in their
thoughts, in their speech. ' You are so strong,
have you no compassion for him who is weak, who
is tempted, who has fallen ?' How often have I
heard this from a Burman's lips ! How often have
I seen him act up to it ! It seems to them the
necessary corollary of strength that the strong man
should be sympathetic and kind. It seems to them
an unconscious confession of weakness to be scorn-
ful, revengeful, inconsiderate. Courtesy, they say,
is the mark of a great man, discourtesy of a little
one. No one who feels his position secure will lose
his temper, will persecute, will be disdainful. Their
word for a fool and for a hasty-tempered man is the
same. To them it is the same thing, one infers the
other. And so their attitude towards animals is but
an example of their attitude to each other. That
an animal or a man should be lower and weaker
than you is the strongest claim he can have on your
humanity, and your courtesy and consideration for
284 I^HE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
him is the clearest proof of your own superiority.
And so in his dealings with animals the Buddhist
considers himself, consults his own dignity, his own
strength, and is kind and compassionate to them out
of the greatness of his own heart. Nothing is more
beautiful than the Burman in his ways with his
children, and his beasts, with all who are lesser than
himself.
Even to us, who think so very differently from
him on many points, there is a great and abiding
charm in all this, to which we can find only one
exception ; for to our ideas there is one exception,
and it is this : No Burman will take any life if he
can help it, and therefore, if any animal injure itself,
he will not kill it — not even to put it out of its pain,
as we say. I have seen bullocks split on slippery
roads, I have seen ponies with broken legs, I have
seen goats with terrible wounds caused by accidental
falls, and no one would kill them. If, when you are
out shooting, your beaters pick up a wounded hare
or partridge, do not suppose that they wring its
neck ; you must yourself do that, or it will linger on
till you get home. Under no circumstances will
they take the life even of a wounded beast. And if
you ask them, they will say : ' If a man be sick, do
you shoot him ? If he injure his spine so that he
will be a cripple for life, do you put him out of his
pain ?'
If you reply that men and beasts are different.
NOBLESSE OBLIGE' 285
they will answer that in this point they do not
recognize the difference. ' Poor beast ! let him live
out his little life.' And they will give him grass
and water till he dies.
This is the exception that I meant, but now, after
I have written it, I am not so sure. Is it an
exception ?
[ 286 ]
CHAPTER XXI. ^^
ALL LIFE IS ONE.
' I heard a voice that cried,
" Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead,"
And through the misty air
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward-sailing cranes.'
Tegner's Drapa.
All romance has died out of our woods and hills in
England, all our fairies are dead long ago. Know-
ledge so far has brought us only death. Later on it
will bring us a new life. It is even now showing us
how this may be, and is bringing us face to face
again with Nature, and teaching us to know and
understand the life that there is about us. Science
is teaching us again what we knew long ago and
forgot, that our life is not apart from the life about
us, but of it. Everything is akin to us, and when
we are more accustomed to this knowledge, when
we have ceased to regard it as a new, strange teach-
ing, and know that we are seeing again with clearer
ALL LIFE IS ONE 287
eyes what a half-knowledge blinded us to, then the
world will be bright and beautiful to us again as it
was long ago.
But now all is dark. There are no dryads in our
trees, nor nymphs among the reeds that fringe the
river ; even our peaks hold for us no guardian
spirit, that may take the reckless trespasser and
bind him in a rock for ever. And because we have
lost our belief in fairies, because we do not now
think that there are goblins in our caves, because
there is no spirit in the winds nor voice in the
thunder, we have come to think that the trees and
the rocks, the flowers and the storm, are all dead
things. They are made up, we say, of materials
that we know, they are governed by laws that we
have discovered, and there is no life anywhere in
Nature.
And yet this cannot be true. Far truer is it to
believe in fairies and in spirits than in nothing- at
all ; for surely there is life all about us. Who that
has lived out alone in the forest, who that has lain
upon the hillside and seen the mountains clothe
themselves in lustrous shadows shot with crimson
when the day dies, who that has heard the sigh
come up out of the ravines where the little breezes
move, who that has watched the trees sway their
leaves to and fro, beckonin^r to each other with
wayward amorous gestures, but has known that
these are not dead things ?
2 88 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
Watch the stream cominor down the hill with a
flash and a laugh in the sunlight, look into the dark
brown pools in the deep shadows beneath the rocks,
or voyage a whole night upon the breast of the
great river, drifting past ghostly monasteries and
silent villages, and then say if there be no life in
the waters, if they, too, are dead things. There ' is
no consolation like the consolation of Nature, lio
sympathy like the sympathy of the hills and
streams ; and sympathy comes from life. There is
no sympathy with the dead.
When you are alone in the forest all this life will
come and talk to you, if you are quiet and understand.
There is love deep down in the passionate heart of
the flower, as there is in the little quivering honey-
sucker flitting after his mate, as there was in Romeo
long ago There is majesty in the huge brown
precipice greater than ever looked from the face of
a kinor. All life is one. The soul that moves
within you when you hear the deer call to each other
far above you in the misty meadows of the night is
the same soul that moves in everything about you.
No people who have lived much with Nature have
failed to descry this. They have recognized the
life, they have felt the sympathy of the world about
them, and to this life they have given names and
forms as they would to friends whom they loved.
Fairies and goblins, fauns and spirits, these are but
names and personifications of a real life. But to
ALL LIFE IS ONE 289
him who has never felt this life, who has never been
wooed by the trees and hills, these things are but
foolishness, of course.
To the Burman, not less than to the Greek of
long ago, all nature is alive. The forest and the
river and the mountains are full of spirits, whom the
Burmans call Nats. There are all kinds of Nats,
good and bad, great and little, male and female,
now living round about us. Some of them live in
the trees, especially in the huge fig-tree that shades
half an acre without the village ; or among the fern-
like fronds of the tamarind ; and you will often see
beneath such a tree, raised upon poles or nestled in
the branches, a little house built of bamboo and
thatch, perhaps two feet square. You will be told
when you ask that this is the house of the Tree-
Nat. Flowers will be offered sometimes, and a
little water or rice maybe, to the Nat, never sup-
posing that he is in need of such things, but as a
courteous and graceful thing to do ; for it is not
safe to offend these Nats, and many of them are
very powerful. There is a Nat of whom I know,
whose home is in a great tree at the crossing of two
roads, and he has a house there built for him, and he
is much feared. He is such a great Nat that it is
necessary when you pass his house to dismount
from your pony and walk to a respectful distance.
If you haughtily ride past trouble will befall you.
A friend of mine riding there one day rejected all
19
290 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
the advice of his Burmese companions and did
not dismount, and a few days later he was taken
deadly sick of fever. He very nearly died, and had
to go away to the Straits for a sea-trip to take the
fever out of his veins. It was a very near thing
for him. That was in the Burmese times, of course.
After that he always dismounted. But all Nats a!re
not so proud nor so much to be feared as this on*e,
and it is usually safe to ride past.
Sometimes these Tree-Nats are given to throwing
stones at houses near them, because they have taken
a dislike to, or been insulted by, some dweller in the
house. There is a lady I know who had a house in
Maulmain, in the compound of which grew several
magnificent trees, and Nats lived in them. For
some reason or other these Nats took an enmity
to the Burmese servant, and threw stones on the
house, so that the lady and her husband could not
sleep. For a time they could not discover the
reason of this stone-throwing ; but when the servant
went away for a few days and the stoning stopped,
it became apparent what the cause was. Directly
he returned the stone-throwing became worse than
ever, and as no means, though many were tried,
were effectual in stopping it, it was necessary at last
to dismiss the lad.
Even as I write I am under the shadow of a tree
where a Nat used to live, and the headman of the
village has been telling me all about it. This is a
ALL LIFE IS ONE 291
government rest-house on a main road between
two stations, and is built for government officials
travelling on duty about their districts. To the
west of it is a o^rand fisf-tree of the kind called
Nyaungbin by the Burmese. It is a very beautiful
tree, though now a little bare, for it is just before
the rains ; but it is a great tree even now, and two
months hence it will be glorious. It was never
planted, the headman tells me, but came up of itself
very many years ago, and when it was grown to full
size a Nat came to live in it. This was in the king's
time, of course. The Nat lived in the tree for many
years, and took great care of it. No one might
injure it or any living creature near it, so jealous
was the Nat of his abode. And the villaorers built
a little Nat-house, such as I have described, under
the branches, and offered flowers and water, and all
things went well with those who did well. But it
anyone did ill the Nat punished him. If he cut the
roots of the tree the Nat hurt his feet, and if he
injured the branches the Nat injured his arms ; and
if he cut the trunk the Nat came down out of the
tree, and killed the sacrilegious man right off. There
was no running away, because, as you know, the
headman said, Nats can go a great deal faster than
any man. Many men, careless strangers, who camped
under the tree and then abused the hospitality of
the Nat by hunting near his home, came to severe
grief.
19 — 2
292 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
But the Nat has gone now, alas! The tree is
still there, but the Nat has fled away these many
years.
' I suppose he didn't care to stay,' said the head-
man. ' You see that the English government officials
came and camped here, and didn't fear the Nats.
They had fowls killed here for their dinner, and
they sang and shouted ; and they shot the green
pigeons who ate his figs, and the little doves that
nested in his branches.'
All these things were an abomination to the Nat,
who hated loud, rough talk and abuse, and to whom
all life was sacred.
So the Nat went away. The headman did not
know where he was gone, but there are plenty of
trees.
' He has gone somewhere to get peace,' the head-
man said. ' Somewhere in the jungle, where no one
ever comes save the herd-boy and the deer, he will
be living in a tree, though I do not think he will
easily find a tree so beautiful as this.'
The headman seemed very sorry about it, and
so did severa.1 villagers who were with him ; and I
suggested that if the Nat-houses were rebuilt, and
flowers and water offered, the Nat might know and
return. I even offered to contribute myself, that it
might be taken as an amende honorable on behalf
of the English government. But they did not think
this would be any use. No Nat would come where
ALL LIFE IS ONE 293
there was so much going and coming, so Httle care
for life, such a disregard for pity and for peace. If
we were to take away our rest-house, well then,
perhaps, after a time, something could be done, but
not under present circumstances.
And so, besides dethroninor the Burmese king-,
and occupying his golden palace, we are ousting
from their pleasant homes the guardian spirits of
the trees. They flee before the cold materialism
of our belief, before the brutality of our manners.
The headman did not say this ; he did not mean
to say this, for he is a very courteous man and a
great friend of all of us ; but that is what it came
to, I think.
The trunk of this tree is more than ten feet
through — not a round bole, but like the pillar in a
Gothic cathedral, as of many smaller boles growing
together ; and the roots spread out into a pedestal
before entering the ground. The trunk does not
go up very far. At perhaps twenty-five feet above
the ground it divides into a myriad of smaller trunks,
not branches, till it looks more like a forest than a
single tree ; it is full of life still. Though the pigeons
and the doves come here no longer, there are a
thousand other birds flitting to and fro in their
aerial city and chirping to each other. Two tiny
squirrels have just run along a branch nearly over
my head, in a desperate hurry apparently, their tails
cocked over their backs, and a sky blue chameleon
294 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
is standing on the trunk near where it parts. There
is always a breeze in this great tree ; the leaves are
always moving, and there is a continuous rustle and
murmur up there. A mango-tree and tamarind near
by are quite still. Not a breath shakes their leaves ;
they are as still as stone, but the shadow of the fig-
tree is chequered with ever-changing lights. Is the
Nat really gone ? Perhaps not ; perhaps he is still
there, still caring for his tree, only shy now and
distrustful, and therefore no more seen.
Whole woods are enchanted sometimes, and no
one dare enter them. Such a wood I know, far
away north, near the hills, which is full of Nats.
There was a great deal of game in it, for animals
sought shelter there, and no one dared to disturb
them ; nor the villagers to cut firewood, nor the
girls seeking orchids, nor the hunter after his prey,
dared to trespass upon that enchanted ground.
'What would happen,' I asked once, 'if anyone
went into that wood ? Would he be killed, or what ?'
And I was told that no one could tell what would
happen, only that he would never be seen again
alive. 'The Nats would confiscate him,' they said,
' for intruding on their privacy.' But what they
would do to him after the confiscation no one seemed
to be quite sure. I asked the official who was with
me, a fine handsome Burman who had been with us
in many fights, whether he would go into the wood
with me, but he declined at once. Enemies are one
ALL LIFE IS ONE 295
thing, Nats are quite another, and a very much more
dreadful thing. You can escape from enemies, as
witness my companion, who had been shot at times
without number and had only once been hit in the
leg, but you cannot escape Nats. Once, he told
me, there were two very sacrilegious men, hunters
by profession, only more abandoned than even the
majority of hunters, and they went into this wood
to hunt. ' They didn't care for Nats,' they said.
They didn't care for anything at all apparently.
* They were absolutely without reverence, worse
than any beast,' said my companion.
So they went into the wood to shoot, and they
never came out again. A few days later their bare
bones were found, flung out upon the road near the
enchanted wood. The Nats did not care to have
even the bones of such scoundrels in their wood,
and so thrust them out. That was what happened
to them, and that was what might happen to us if
we went in there. We did not go.
Though the Nats of the forest will not allow even
one of their beasts to be slain, the Nats of the rivers
are not so exclusive. I do not think fish are ever
regarded in quite the same light as animals. It is
true that a fervent Buddhist will not kill even a fish,
but a fisherman is not quite such a reprobate as a
hunter in popular estimation. And the Nats think
so, too, for the Nat of a pool will not forbid all
fishing. You must give him his share ; you must
296 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
be respectful to him, and not offend him ; and then
he will fill your nets with gleaming fish, and all will
go well with you. If not, of course, you will come
to grief ; your nets will be torn, and your boat upset ;
and finally, if obstinate, you will be drowned. A
great arm will seize you, and you will be pulled
under and disappear for ever. '
A Nat is much like a human being ; if you treat
him well he will treat you well, and conversely.
Courtesy is never wasted on men or Nats, at least
so a Burman tells me.
The hiofhest Nats live in the mountains. The
higher the Nat the higher the mountain ; and when
you get to a very high peak indeed, like Mainthong
Peak in Wuntho, you encounter very powerful Nats.
They tell a story of Mainthong Peak and the
Nats there, how all of a sudden, one day in 1885,
strange noises came from the hill. High up on his
mighty side was heard the sound of great guns
firing slowly and continuously ; there was the thunder
of falling rocks, cries as of someone bewailing a
terrible calamity, and voices calling from the preci-
pices. The people living in their little hamlets
about his feet were terrified. Something they knew
had happened of most dire import to them, some
catastrophe which they were powerless to prevent,
which they could not even guess. But when a few
weeks later there came even into those remote
villages the news of the fall of Mandalay, of the
ALL LIFE IS ONE 297
surrender of the king, of the ' great treachery,' they
knew that. this was what the Nats had been sorrow-
ing over. All the Nats everywhere seem to have
been distressed at our arrival, to hate our presence,
and to earnestly desire our absence. They are the
spirits of the country and of the people, and they
cannot abide a foreign domination.
But the greatest place for Nats is the Popa
Mountain, which is an extinct volcano standing all
alone about midway between the river and the Shan
Mountains. It is thus very conspicuous, having no
hills near it to share its majesty ; and being in sight
from all the old capitals, it is very well known in
history and legend. It is covered with dense forest,
and the villages close about are few. At the top
there is a crater with a broken side, and a stream
comes flowing out of this break down the mountain.
Probably it was the denseness of its forests, the
abundance of water, and its central position, more
than its guardian Nats, that made it for so many
years the last retreating-place of the half-robber,
half-patriot bands that made life so uneasy for us.
But the Nats of Popa Mountains are very famous.
When any foreigner was taken into the service of
the King of Burma he had to swear an oath of
fidelity. He swore upon many things, and among
them were included 'all the Nats in Popa.' No
Burman would hav^e dared to break an oath sworn
in such a serious way as this, and they did not
298 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
imagine that anyone else would. It was and is a
very dangerous thing to offend the Popa Nats ; for
they are still there in the mountain, and everyone
who goes there must do them reverence.
A friend of mine, a police officer who was en-
gaged in trying to catch the last of the robber chiefs
who hid near Popa, told me that when he went' up
the mountain shooting he, too, had to make offer-
ings. Some way up there is a little valley dark
with overhanging trees, and a stream flows slowly
along it. It is an enchanted valley, and if you look
closely you will see that the stream is not as other
streams, for it flows uphill. It comes rushing into
the valley with a great display of foam and froth,
and it leaves in a similar way, tearing down the
rocks, and behaving like any other boisterous hill
rivulet ; but in the valley itself it lies under a spell.
It is slow and dark, and has a surface like a mirror,
and it flows uphill. There is no doubt about it ;
anyone can see it. When they came here, my
friend tells me, they made a halt, and the Burmese
hunters with him unpacked his breakfast. He did
not want to eat then, he said, but they explained
that it was not for him, but for the Nats. All his
food was unpacked, cold chicken and tinned meats,
and jam and eggs and bread, and it was spread
neatly on a cloth under a tree. Then the hunters
called upon the Nats to come and take anything
they desired, while my friend wondered what he
ALL LIFE IS ONE 299
should do if the Nats took all his food and left him
with nothing. But no Nats came, although the
Burmans called again and again. So they packed
up the food, saying that now the Nats would be
pleased at the courtesy shown to them, and that my
friend would have good sport. Presently they went
on, leaving, however, an egg or two and a little
salt, in case the Nats might be hungry later, and
true enough it was that they did have good luck.
At other times, my friend says, when he did not
observe this ceremony, he saw nothing to shoot at
all, but on this day he did well.
The former history of all Nats is not known.
Whether they have had a previous existence in
another form, and if so, what, is a secret that they
usually keep carefully to themselves, but the history
of the Popa Nats is well known. Everyone who
lives near the great hill can tell you that, for it all
happened not so long ago. How long exactly no
one can say, but not so long that the details of the
story have become at all clouded by the mists of
time.
They were brother and sister, these Popa Nats,
and they had lived away up North. The brother
was a blacksmith, and he was a very strong man.
He was the strongest man in all the country ; the
blow of his hammer on the anvil made the earth
tremble, and his forge was as the mouth of hell.
No one was so much feared and so much sought
300 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
after as he. And as he was strong, so his sister
was beautiful beyond all the maidens of the time.
Their father and mother were dead, and there was
no one but those two, the brother and sister, so
they loved each other dearly, and thought of no one
else. The brother brought home no wife to his
house by the forge. He wanted no one while' he
had his sister there, and when lovers came wooing
to her, singing amorous songs in the amber dusk,
she would have nothing to do with them. So they
lived there together, he growing stronger and she
more beautiful every day, till at last a change came.
The old king died, and a new king came to
the throne, and orders were sent about to all the
governors of provinces and other officials that the
most beautiful maidens were to be sent down to the
Golden City to be wives to the great king. So the
governor of that country sent for the blacksmith and
his sister to his palace, and told them there what
orders he had received, and asked the blacksmith to
give his sister that she might be sent as queen to
the king. We are not told what arguments the
governor used to gain his point, but only this, that
when he failed, he sent the girl in unto his wife, and
there she was persuaded to go. There must have
been something very tempting, to one who was but
a village girl, in the prospect of being even one of
the lesser queens, of living in the palace, the centre
of the world. So she consented at last, and her
ALL LIFE IS ONE 301
brother consented, and the girl was sent down
under fitting escort to find favour in the eyes of her
king. But the blacksmith refused to go. It was
no good the governor saying such a great man as he
must come to high honour in the Golden City, it
was useless for the girl to beg and pray him to come
with her — he always refused. So she sailed away
down the great river, and the blacksmith returned
to his fonre.
As the governor had said, the girl was acceptable
in the king's sight, and she was made at last one of
the principal queens, and of all she had most power
over the king. They say she was most beautiful,
that her presence was as soothing as shade after
heat, that her form was as graceful as a young tree,
and the palms of her hands were like lotus blossoms.
She had enemies, of course. Most of the other
queens were her enemies, and tried to do her harm.
But it was useless telling tales of her to the king,
for the king never believed ; and she walked so
wisely and so well, that she never fell into any
snare. But still the plots never ceased.
There was one day when she was sitting alone in
the garden pavilion, with the trees making moving
shadows all about her, that the kino- came to her.
They talked for a time, and the king began to
speak to her of her life before she came to the
palace, a thing he had never done before. But he
seemed to know all about it, nevertheless, and hr.
302 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
spoke to her of her brother, and said that he, the
king, had heard how no man was so strong as this
blacksmith, the brother of the queen. The queen
said it was true, and she talked on and on and
praised her brother, and babbled of the days of
her childhood, when he carried her on his great
shoulder, and threw her into the air, catching her
again. She was delighted to talk of all these things,
and in her pleasure she forgot her discretion, and
said that her brother was wise as well as strong,
and that all the people loved him. Never was there
such a man as he. The king did not seem very
pleased with it all, but he said only that the black-
smith was a great man, and that the queen must
write to him to come down to the city, that the
king might see him of whom there was such great
report.
Then the king got up and went away, 'and the
queen began to doubt ; and the more she thought
the more she feared she had not been acting wisely
in talking as she did, for it is not wise to praise any-
one to a king. She went away to her own room
to consider, and to try if she could hear of any
reason why the king should act as he had done,
and desire her brother to come to him to the city ;
and she found out that it was all a plot of her
enemies. Herself they had failed to injure, so they
were now plotting against her through her brother.
They had gone to the king, and filled his ear with
ALL LIFE IS ONE 303
slanderous reports. They had said that the queen's
brother was the strongest man in all the kingdom.
' He was cunning, too,' they said, 'and very popular
among all the people ; and he was so puffed up with
pride, now that his sister was a queen, that there
was nothing he did not think he could do.' They
represented to the king how dangerous such a man
was in a kingdom, that it would be quite easy for
him to raise such rebellion as the king could hardly
put down, and that he was just the man to do such
a thing. Nay, it was indeed proved that he must
be disloyally plotting something, or he would have
come down with his sister to the city when she
came. But now many months had passed, and he
never came. Clearly he was not to be trusted.
Any other man whose sister was a queen would
have come and lived in the palace, and served the
king and become a minister, instead of staying up
there and pretending to be a blacksmith.
The king's mind had been much disturbed by
this, for it seemed to him that it must be in part
true ; and he went to the queen, as I have said, and
his suspicions had not been lulled by what she told
him, so he had ordered her to write to her brother
to come down to the palace.
The queen was terrified when she saw what a
mistake she had made, and how she had fallen into
the trap of her enemies ; but she hoped that the
king would forget, and she determined that she
304 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
would send no order to her brother to come. But
the next day the king came back to the subject,
and asked her If she had yet sent the letter, and she
said ' No !' The king was very angry at this dis-
obedience to his orders, and he asked her how it
came that she had not done as he had commanded,
and sent a letter to her brother to call him to the
palace.
Then the queen fell at the king's feet and told
him all her fears that her brother was sent for only
to be imprisoned or executed, and she begged and
prayed the king to leave him in peace up there in
his village. She assured the king that he was loyal
and good, and would do no evil.
The king was rather abashed that his design had
been discovered, but he was firm in his purpose.
He assured the queen that the blacksmith should
come to no harm, but rather good ; and he ordered
the queen to obey him, threatening her that if she
refused he would be sure that she was disloyal also,
and there would be no alternative but to send and
arrest the blacksmith by force, and punish her, the
queen, too. Then the queen said that if the king
swore to her that her brother should come to no
harm, she would write as ordered. And the kitig
swore.
So the queen wrote to her brother, and adjured
him by his love to her to come down to the Golden
City. She said she had dire need of him, and she
ALL LIFE IS ONE 305
told him that the king had sworn that no harm
should come to him.
The letter was sent off by a king's messenger.
In due time the blacksmith arrived, and he was
immediately seized and thrown into prison to await
his trial.
When the queen saw that she had been deceived,
she was in despair. She tried by every way, by
tears and entreaties and caresses, to move the king,
but all without avail. Then she tried by plotting
and bribery to gain her brother's release, but it was
all in vain. The day for trial came quickly, and the
blacksmith was tried, and he was condemned and
sentenced to be burnt alive by the river on the
following day.
On the evening of the day of trial the queen sent
a message to the king to come to her ; and when
the king came reluctantly, fearing a renewal of
entreaties, expecting a woman made of tears and
sobs, full of grief, he found instead that the queen
had dried her eyes and dressed herself still more
beautifully than ever, till she seemed to the king
the very pearl among women. And she told the
king that he was right, and she was wrong. She
said, putting her arms about him and caressing him,
that she had discovered that it was true that her
brother had been plotting against the king, and
therefore his death was necessary. It was terrible,
she said, to find that her brother, whom she had
20
3o6 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
always held as a pattern, was no better than a
traitor ; but it was even so, and her king was the
wisest of all kings to find it out.
The king was delighted to find his queen in this
mood, and he soothed her and talked to her kindly
and sweetly, for he really loved her, though he had
given in to bad advice about the brother. And
when the king's suspicions were lulled, the qui&en
said to him that she had now but one request to
make, and that was that she might have permission
to go down with her maids to the river-shore in the
early morning, and see herself the execution of her
traitor brother. The king, who would now have
granted her anything — anything she asked, except
just that one thing, the life of her brother — gave
permission ; and then the queen said that she was
tired and wished to rest after all the trouble of the
last few days, and would the king leave her. So
the king left her to herself, and went away to his
own chambers.
Very early in the morning, ere the crimson flush
upon the mountains had faded in the light of day,
a vast crowd was gathered below the city, by the
shore of the great river. Very many thousands
were there, of many countries and peoples, crowd-
ing down to see a man die, to see a traitor burnt to
death for his sins, for there is nothing men like so
much as to see another man die.
ALL LIFE IS ONE 307
Upon a little headland jutting- out into the river
the pyre was raised, with brushwood and straw, to
burn quickly, and an iron post in the middle to
which the man was to be chained. At one side
was a place reserved, and presently down from the
palace in a long procession came the queen and
her train of ladies to the place kept for her. Guards
were put all about to prevent the people crowding ;
and then came the soldiers, and in the midst of
them the blacksmith ; and amid many cries of
' Traitor, traitor !' and shouts of derision, he was
bound to the iron post within the wood and the
straw, and the guards fell back.
The queen sat and watched it all, and said never
a word. Fire was put to the pyre, and it crept
rapidly up in long red tongues with coils of black
smoke. It went very quickly, for the wood was
very dry, and a light breeze came laughing up the
river and helped it. The flames played about the
man chained there in the midst, and he made never
a sign ; only he looked steadily across at the purple
mountain where his home lay, and it was clear that
in a few more moments he would be dead. There
was a deep silence everywhere.
Then of a sudden, before anyone knew, before
a hand could be held out to hinder her, the queen
rose from her seat and ran to the pyre. In a
moment she was there and had thrown herself into
the flames, and with her arms about her brother's
20 — 2
3o8 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
neck she turned and faced the myriad eyes that
glared upon them — the queen, in all the glory of
her beauty, glittering with gems, and the man with
great shackled bare limbs, dressed in a few rags, his
muscles already twisted with the agony of the fire.
A great cry of horror came from the people, and
there was the movement of guards and offiters
rushing to stop the fire ; but it was all of no use.
A great flash of red flames came out of the logs,
folding these twain like an imperial cloak, a whirl of
sparks towered into the air, and when one could see
again the woman and her brother were no longer
there. They were dead and burnt, and the bodies
mingled with the ashes of the fire. She had cost
her brother his life, and she went with him into
death.
Some days after this a strange report was brought
to the palace. By the landing-place near the spot
where the fire had been was a great fig-tree. It
was so near to the landing-place, and was such a
magnificent tree, that travellers coming from the
boats, or waiting for a boat to arrive, would rest in
numbers under its shade. But the report said
that something had happened there. To travellers
sleeping beneath the tree at night it was stated
that two Nats had appeared, very large and very
beautiful, a man Nat and a woman Nat, and had
frightened them very much indeed. Noises were
ALL LIFE IS ONE 309
heard in the tree, voices and cries, and a strange
terror came upon those who approached it. Nay, it
was even said that men had been struck by unseen
hands and severely hurt, and others, it was said,
had disappeared. Children who went to play under
the tree were never seen again : the Nats took
them, and their parents sought for them in vain.
So the landing-place was deserted, and a petition
was brought to the king, and the king gave orders
that the tree should be hewn down. So the tree
was cut down, and its trunk was thrown into the
river ; it floated away out of sight, and nothing
happened to the men who cut the tree, though they
were deadly afraid.
The tree floated down for days, until at last it
stranded near a landing-place that led to a large
town, where the governor of these parts lived ;
and at this landing-place the portents that had
frightened the people at the great city reappeared
and terrified the travellers here too, and they
petitioned the governor.
The governor sought out a great monk, a very
holy man learned in these matters, and sent him to
inquire, and the monk came down to the tree and
spoke. He said that if any Nats lived in the tree,
they should speak to him and tell him what they
wanted. ' It is not fit,' he said, ' for great Nats to
terrify the poor villagers at the landing-place. Let
the Nats speak and say what they require. All
^lo THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
that they want shall be given.' And the Nats spake
and said that they wanted a place to live in where
they could be at peace, and the monk answered for
the governor that all his land was at their disposal.
' Let the Nats choose,' he said ; ' all the country is
before them.' So the Nats chose, and said that
they would have Popa Mountain, and the monk
agreed.
The Nats then left the tree and went away, far
away inland, to the great Popa Mountain, and took
up their abode there, and all the people there feared
and reverenced them, and even made to their
honour two statues with golden heads and set them
up on the mountain.
This is the story of the Popa Nats, the greatest
Nats of all the country of Burma, the guardian
spirits of the mysterious mountain. The golden
heads of the statues are now in one of our treasuries,
put there for safe custody during the troubles, though
it is doubtful if even then anyone would have dared
to steal them, so greatly are the Nats feared. And
the hunters and the travellers there must offer to
the Nats little offerings, if they would be safe in these
forests, and even the young man must obtain per-
mission from the Nats before he marry.
I think these stories that I have told, stories
selected from very many that I have heard, will
show what sort of spirits these are that the Burmese
ALL LIFE IS ONE 311
have peopled their trees and rivers with ; will show
what sort of religion it is that underlies, without
influencing, the creed of the Buddha that they
follow. It is of the very poetry of superstition,
free from brutality, from baseness, from anything
repulsive, springing, as I have said, from their
innate sympathy with Nature and recognition of
the life that works in all things. It always seems
to me that beliefs such as these are a great key to
the nature of a people, are, apart from all interest in
their beauty, and in their akinness to other beliefs,
of great value in trying to understand the character
of a nation.
For to beings such as Nats and fairies the people
who believe in them will attribute such qualities as
are predominant in themselves, as they consider
admirable ; and, indeed, all supernatural beings are
but the magnified shadows of man cast by the light
ot his imagination upon the mists of his ignorance.
Therefore, when you find that a people make
their spirits beautiful and fair, calm and even
tempered, loving peace and the beauty of the trees
and rivers, shrinkingly averse from loud words, from
noises, and from the taking of life, it is because
the people themselves think that these are great
qualities. If no stress be laid upon their courage,
their activity, their performance of great deeds, it is
because the people who imagine them care not for
such things. There is no truer guide, I am sure, 10
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
the heart of a young people than their superstitions ;
these they make entirely for themselves, apart from
their religion, which is, to a certain extent, made
for them. That is why I have written this chapter
on Nats : not because I think it affects Buddhism
very much one way or another, but because it seems
to me to reveal the people themselves, because > it
helps us to understand them better, to see more
with their eyes, to be in unison with their ideas —
because it is a great key to the soul of the people.
[3^3 J
CHAPTER XXII.
DEATH, THE DELIVERER.
'The end of my life is near at hand ; seven days hence, like a
man who rids himself of a heavy load, I shall be free from the
burden of my body.' — Death of the Biiddlia.
There is a song well known to all the Burmese, the
words of which are taken from the sacred writings.
It is called the story of Ma Pa Da, and it was first
told to me by a Burmese monk, long ago, when I
was away on the frontier.
It runs like this :
In the time of the Buddha, in the city of Thawatti,
there was a certain rich man, a merchant, who had
many slaves. Slaves in those days, and. indeed,
generally throughout the East, were held very
differently to slaves in Europe. They were part
of the family, and were not saleable without good
reason, and there was a law applicable to them.
They were not Jiors dc la lot, like the slaves of which
we have conception. There are many cases quoted
of sisters being slaves to sisters, and of bnuhers to
314 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
brothers, quoted not for the purpose of saying that
this was an uncommon occurrence, but merely of
showing points of law in such cases.
One day in the market the merchant bought
another slave, a young man, handsome and well
mannered, and took him to his house, and kept him
there with his family and the other slaves. The
young man was earnest and careful in his work, and
the merchant approved of him, and his fellow-slaves
liked him. But Ma Pa Da, the merchant's daughter,
fell in love with him. The slave was much troubled
at this, and he did his best to avoid her ; but he
was a slave and under orders, and what could he
do ? When she would come to him secretly and
make love to him, and say, * Let us flee together,
for we love each other,' he would refuse, saying that
he was a slave, and the merchant would be very
angry. He said he could not do such a thing. And
yet when the girl said, ' Let us flee, for we love
each other,' he knew that it was true, and that he
loved her as she loved him ; and it was only his
honour to his master that held him from doing as
she asked.
But because his heart was not of iron, and there
are few men that can resist when a woman comes
and woos them, he at last gave way ; and they fled
away one night, the girl and the slave, taking with
them her jewels and some money. They travelled
rapidly and in great fear, and did not rest till they
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 315
came to a city far away where the merchant would
never, they thought, think of searching for them.
Here, in this city where no one knew of their
history, they Hved in great happiness, husband and
wife, trading with the money they had with them.
And in time a little child was born to them.
About two or three years after this it became
necessary for the husband to take a journey, and he
started forth with his wife and child. The journey
was a very long one, and they were unduly delayed ;
and so it happened that while siill in the forest the
wife fell ill, and could not go on any further. So
the husband built a hut of branches and leaves,
and there, in the solitude of the forest, was born to
them another little son.
The mother recovered rapidly, and in a little time
she was well enough to go on. They were to start
next morning on their way again ; and in the even-
ing the husband went out, as was his custom, to cut
firewood, for the nights were cold and damp.
Ma Pa Da waited and waited for him, but he
never came back.
The sun set and the dark rose out of the ground,
and the forest became full of whispers, but he never
came. All night she watched and waited, caring
for her little ones, fearful to leave them alone, till
at last the gray light came down, down from the
sky to the branches, and from the branches to the
ground, and she could see her way. Then, with her
3i6 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
new-born babe In her arms and the elder little fellow
trotting- by her side, she went out to search for her
husband. Soon enough she found him, not far off,
stiff and cold beside his half-cut bundle of firewood.
A snake had bitten him on the ankle, and he was
dead.
So Ma Pa Da was alone in the great forest, bUt
a girl still, with two little children to care for.
But she was brave, despite her trouble, and she
determined to go on and gain some village. She
took her baby in her arms and the little one by the
hand, and started on her journey.
And for a time all went well, till at last she came
to a stream. It was not very deep, but it was too
deep for the little boy to wade, for it came up to
his neck, and his mother was not strong enough to
carry both at once. So, after considering for a time,
she told the elder boy to wait. She would cross
and put the baby on the far side, and return for
him.
'Be good,' she said; 'be good, and stay here
quietly till I come back ;' and the boy promised.
The stream was deeper and swifter than she
thought ; but she went with great care and gained
the far side, and put the baby under a tree a little
distance from the bank, to lie there while she went
for the other boy. Then, after a few minutes' rest,
she went back.
She had got to the centre of the stream, and her
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 317
little boy had come down to the margin to be ready
for her, when she heard a rush and a cry from the
side she had just left ; and, looking round, she saw
with terror a great eagle sweep down upon the
baby, and carry it off in its claws. She turned
round and waved her arms and cried out to the
eagle, ' He ! he !' hoping it would be frightened and
drop the baby. But it cared nothing for her cries
or threats, and swept on with long curves over the
forest trees, away out of sight.
Then the mother turned to gain the bank once
more, and suddenly she missed her son who had
been waiting for her. He had seen his mother
wave her arms ; he had heard her shout, and he
thought she was calling him to come to her. So
the brave little man walked down into the water,
and the black current carried him off his feet at
once. He was gone, drowned in the deep water
below the ford, tossing on the waves towards the
sea.
No one can write of the despair of the girl when
she threw herself under a tree in the forest. The
song says it was very terrible.
At last she said to herself, ' I will get up now and
return to my father in Thawatti ; he is all I have
left. Though I have forsaken him all these years,
yet now that my husband and his children are dead,
my father will take me back ao.iin. Surely he will
have pity on me, for I am much to be pitied.'
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
So she went on, and at length, after many days,
she came to the gates of the great city where her
father Uved.
At the entering of the gates she met a large
company of people, mourners, returning from a
funeral, and she spoke to them and asked them :
' Who is it that you have been burying to-day so
grandly with so many mourners ?'
And the people answered her, and told her who
it was. And when she heard, she fell down upon
the road as one dead ; for it was her father and
mother who had died yesterday, and it was their
funeral train that she saw. They were all dead
now, husband and sons and father and mother ; in
all the world she was quite alone.
So she went mad, for her trouble was more than
she could bear. She threw off all her clothes, and
let down her long hair and wrapped it about her
naked body, and walked about raving.
At last she came to where the Buddha was teach-
ing, seated under a fig-tree. She came up to the
Buddha, and told him of her losses, and how she
had no one left ; and she demanded of the Buddha
that he should restore to her those that she had
lost. And the Buddha had great compassion upon
her, and tried to console her.
'All die,' he said; 'it comes to everyone, king
and peasant, animal and man. Only through many
deaths can we obtain the Great Peace. All this
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 319
sorrow,' he said, ' is of the earth. All this is passion
which we must get rid of, and forget before we reach
heaven. Be comforted, my daughter, and turn to
the holy life. All suffer as you do. It is part of
our very existence here, sorrow and trouble without
any end.'
But she would not be comforted, but demanded
her dead of the Buddha. Then, because he saw it
was no use talking to her, that her ears were deaf
with grief, and her eyes blinded with tears, he said to
her that he would restore to her those who were dead.
* You must go,' he said, ' my daughter, and get
some mustard-seed, a pinch of mustard-seed, and I
can bring back their lives. Only you must get this
seed from the orarden of him near whom death has
never come. Get this, and all will be well.'
So the woman went forth with a light heart. It
was so simple, only a pinch of mustard-seed, and
mustard grew in every garden. She would get the
seed and be back very quickly, and then the Lord
Buddha would orive her back those she loved who
o
had died. She clothed herself again and tied up
her hair, and went cheerfully and asked at the first
house, ' Give me a pinch of mustard-seed,' and it was
given readily. So with her treasure in her hand
she was eoinsf forth back to the Buddha full of
delight, when she remembered.
' Has ever anyone died in your household ?' she
asked, lookinof round wistfullv.
320 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
The man answered ' Yes,' that death had been
with them but recently. Who could this woman
be, he thought, to ask such a question ? And the
woman went forth, the seed dropping from her care-
less fingers, for it was of no value. So she would
try again and again, but it was always the same.
Death had taken his tribute from all. Father br
mother, son or brother, daughter or wife, there W^s
always a gap somewhere, a vacant place beside the
meal. From house to house throughout the city
she went, till at last the new hope faded away, and
she learned from the world, what she had not
believed from the Buddha, that death and life are
one.
So she returned, and she became a nun, poor
soul ! taking on her the two hundred and twenty-
seven vows, which are so hard to keep that now-
adays nuns keep but five of them.*
This is the teaching of the Buddha, that death is
inevitable ; this is the consolation he offers, that all
men must know death ; no one can escape death ;
no one can escape the sorrow of the death of those
whom he loves. Death, he says, and life are one ;
* These five vows are :
1. Not to take life.
2. To be honest.
3. To tell the truth.
4. To abstain from intoxicants.
5. Chastity.
DEATH, THE DELIVERER
321
not antagonistic, but the same ; and the only way to
escape from one is to escape from the other too.
Only in the Great Peace, when we have found
refuge from the passion and tumult of life, shall we
find the place where death cannot come. Life and
death are one.
This is the teaching of the Buddha, repeated over
and over again to his disciples when they sorrowed
for the death of l^hariputra, when they were in
despair at the swift-approaching end of the great
teacher himself Hear what he says to Ananda,
the beloved disciple, who is mourning over Thari-
putra.
'Ananda,' he said, 'often and often have I
sought to bring shelter to your soul from the
misery caused by such grief as this. There are
two things alone that can separate us from father
and mother, from brother and sister, from all those
who are most cherished by us, and those two things
are distance and death. Think not that 1. though
the Buddha, have not felt all this even as any oth^er
of you ; was I not alone when I was seekincr for
wisdom in the wilderness }
' And yet what would I have gained by wailing
and lamenting either for myself or for others ? Would
it have brought to me any solace from mv loneli-
ness } would it have been any help to those whom
I had left } There is nothing that can happen to
us, however terrible, however mis<Table. that can
21
322 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
justify tears and lamentations and make them aught
but a weakness.'
And so, we are told, in this way the Buddha
soothed the affliction of Ananda, and filled his soul
with consolation — the consolation of resignation.
For there is no other consolation possible but
this, resio^nation to the inevitable, the conviction of
the uselessness of sorrow, the vanity and selfishness
of grief.
There is no meeting again with the dead. No-
where in the recurring centuries shall we meet again
those whom we have loved, whom we love, who
seem to us to be parts of our very soul. That
which survives of us, the part which is incarnated
again and again, until it be fit for heaven, has
nothing to do with love and hate.
Even if in the whirlpool of life our paths should
cross again the paths of those whom we have loved,
we are never told that we shall know them again
and love them.
A friend of mine has just lost his mother, and he
is very much distressed. He must have been very
fond of her, for although he has a wife and children,
and is happy in his family, he is in great sorrow.
He proposes even to build a pagoda over her
remains, a testimony of respect which in strict
Buddhism is reserved to saints. He has been
telling me about this, and how he is trying to get a
sacred relic to put in the pagoda, and I asked him if
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 323
he never hoped again to meet the soul of his mother
on earth or in heaven, and he answered :
* No. It is very hard, but so are many things,
and they have to be borne. Far better it is to face
the truth than to escape by a pleasant falsehood.
There is a Burmese proverb that tells us that all
the world is one vast burial-ground ; there are dead
men everywhere.'
' One of our great men has said the same,' I
answered.
He was not surprised.
' As it is true,' he said, ' I suppose all great men
would see it.'
Thus there is no escape, no loophole for a
delusive hope, only the cultivation of the courage of
sorrow.
There are never any exceptions to the laws of
the Buddha. If a law is a law, that is the end of it.
Just as we know of no exceptions to the law of
gravitation, so there are no exceptions to the law of
death.
But although this may seem to be a religion of
despair, it is not really so. This sorrow to which
there is no relief is the selfishness of sorrow, the
grief for our own loneliness ; for of sorrow, of fear,
of pity for the dead, there is no need. We know
that in time all will be well with them. We know
that, though there may be before them vast periods
of suffering, yet that they will all at last be in
21 — 2
324 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
Nebhan with us. And if we shall not know them
there, still we shall know that they are there, all of
them — not one will be wanting. Purified from the
lust of life, white souls steeped in the Great Peace,
all livinor thinors will attain rest at last.
There is this remarkable fact in Buddhism, that
nowhere is any fear expressed of death itself, no-
where any apprehension of what may happen to the
dead. It is the sorrow of separation, the terror of
death to the survivors, that is always dwelt upon
with compassion, and the agony of which it is sought
to soothe.
That the dying man himself should require
strengthening to face the King of Terrors is hardly
ever mentioned. It seems to be taken for granted
that men should have courage in themselves to
take leave of life becomingly, without undue fears.
Buddhism is the way to show us the escape from
the miseries of life, not to give us hope in the hour
of death.
It is true that to all Orientals death is a less
fearful thing than it is to us. I do not know what
may be the cause of this, courage certainly has little
to do with it ; but it is certain that the purely
physical fear of death, that horror and utter re-
vulsion that seizes the majority of us at the idea of
death, is absent from most Orientals. And yet this
cannot explain it all. F"or fear of death, though
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 325
less, is still there, is still a strong influence upon their
lives, and it would seem that no religion which ignored
this great fact could become a great living religion.
Religion is made for man, to fit his necessities,
not man for religion, and yet the faith of Buddhism
is not concerned with death.
Consider our faith, how much of its teaching con-
sists of how to avoid the fear of death, how much of
its consolation is for the death-bed. How we are
taught all our lives that we should live so as not to
fear death ; how we have priests and sacraments
to soothe the dying man. and give him hope and
courage, and how the crown and summit of our
creed is that we should die easily. And consider
that in Buddhism all this is absolutely wanting.
Buddhism is a creed of life, of conduct ; death is
the end of that life, that is all.
We have all seen death. We have all of us
watched those who, near and dear to us, go away
out of our ken. There is no need for me to recall
the last hours of those of our faith, to bring up again
the fading eye and waning breath, the messages of
hope we search for in our Scriptures to give hope
to him who is going, the assurances of religion, the
cross held before the dying eyes.
Many men, we are told, turn to religion at the
last after a life of wickedness, and a man may do
so even at the eleventh hour and be saved.
That is part of our belief ; that is the strongest
326 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
part of our belief ; and that is the hope that all
fervent Christians have, that those they love may-
be saved even at the end.
I think it may truly be said that our Western
creeds are all directed at the hour of death, as the
great and final test of that creed.
And now think of Buddhism ; it is a creed of life.
In life you must win your way to salvation by urgent
effort, by suffering, by endurance. On your death-
bed you can do nothing. If you have done well,
then it is well ; if ill, then you must in future life
try again and again till you succeed. A life is not
washed, a soul is not made fit for the dwelling- of
eternity, in a moment.
Repentance to a Buddhist is but the opening of
the eyes to see the path to righteousness ; it has no
virtue in itself To have seen that we are sinners
is but the first step to cleansing our sin ; in itself it
cannot purify.
As well ask a robber of the poor to repent, and
suppose thereby that those who have suffered from
his guilt are compensated for the evil done to them
by his repentance, as to ask a Buddhist to believe
that a sinner can at the last moment make good to
his own soul all the injuries caused to that soul by
the wickedness of his life.
Or suppose a man who has destroyed his consti-
tution by excess to be by the very fact of acknow-
ledging that excess restored to health.
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 327
The Buddhist will not have that at all. A man
is what he makes himself ; and that making is a
matter of terrible effort, of unceasing endeavour
towards the right, of constant suppression of sin,
till sin be at last dead within him. If a man has
lived a wicked life, he dies a wicked man, and no
wicked man can obtain the perfect rest of the sinless
dead. Heaven is shut to him. But if heaven is
shut it is not shut for ever ; if hell may perhaps
open to him it is only for a time, only till he is
purified and washed from the stain of his sins ; and
then he can begin again, and have another chance
to win heaven. If there is no immediate heaven
there is no eternal hell, and in due time all will
reach heaven ; all will have learnt, through suffer-
ing, the wisdom the Buddha has shown to us, that
only by a just life can men reach the Great Peace
even as he did.
So you see that if Buddhism has none of the con-
solation for the dying man that Christianity holds
out, in the hope of heaven, so it has none of the
threats and terrors of our faith. There is no fear
of an angry Judge — of a Judge who is angry.
And yet when I came to think over the matter,
it seemed to me that surely there must be something
to calm him in the face of death. If Buddhism does
not furnish this consolation, he must go elsewhere
for it. And I was not satisfied, because I could find
nothing in the sacred books about a man's death.
S2S THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
that therefore the creed of the people had ignored it.
A Hving creed must, I was sure, provide for this
somehow.
So I went to a friend of mine, a Burman magis-
trate, and I asked him :
' When a man is dying, what does he try to think
of? What do you say to comfort him that his last
moments may be peace ? The monks do not corrle,
I know.'
* The monks !' he said, shaking his head ; ' what
could they do ?"
I did not know.
'Can you do anything,' I asked, 'to cheer him?
Do you speak to him of what may happen after
death, of hopes of another life ?'
'No one can tell,' said my friend, 'what will
happen after death. It depends on a man's life, if
he has done good or evil, what his next existence
will be, whether he will go a step nearer to the
Peace. When the man is dying no monks will
come, truly ; but an old man, an old friend, father,
perhaps, or an elder of the village, and he will talk
to the dying man. He will say, " Think of your
good deeds ; think of all that you have done well
in this life. Think of your good deeds." '
' W^hat is the use of that ?' I asked. ' Suppose
you think of your good deeds, what then ? Will
that bring peace ?'
And the Burman seemed to think that it would.
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 329
'Nothing,' he said, 'was so calming to a man's
soul as to think of even one deed he had done well
in his life.'
Think of the man dying. The little house built
of bamboo and thatch, with an outer veranda, where
the friends are sitting, and the inner room, behind a
wall of bamboo matting, where the man is lying. A
pot of flowers is standing on a shelf on one side, and
a few cloths are hung here and there beneath the
brown rafters. The sun comes in through little
chinks in roof and wall, making curious lights in the
semi-darkness of the room, and it is very hot.
From outside come the noises of the villao-e. cries
of children playing, grunts of cattle, voices of men
and women clearly heard through the still clear air
of the afternoon. There is a woman pounding rice
near by with a steady thud, thud of the lever, and
there is a clink of a loom where a girl is weaving
ceaselessly. All these sounds come into the house
as if there were no walls at all, but they are unheeded
from long custom.
The man lies on a low bed with a fine mat spread
under him for bedding. His wife, his grown-up
children, his sister, his brother are about him. for
the time is short, and death comes very quickly in
the East. They talk to him kindly and lovingly,
but they read to him no sacred books ; they give
him no messages from the world to which he is
bound ; they whisper to him no hopes of heaven.
330 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
He is. tortured with no fears of everlasting hell.
Yet life is sweet and death is bitter, and it is hard
to go ; and as he tosses to and fro in his fever there
comes in to him an old friend, the headman of the
village perhaps, with a white muslin fillet bound
about his kind old head, and he sits beside the
dying man and speaks to him. '
' Remember,' he says slowly and clearly, ' all thosfe
things that you have done well. Think of your good
deeds.'
And as the sick man turns wearily, trying to move
his thoughts as he is bidden, trying to direct the
wheels of memory, the old man helps him to re-
member.
'Think,' he says, 'of your good deeds, of how
you have given charity to the monks, of how you
have fed the poor. Remember how you worked
and saved to build the little rest-house in the forest
where the traveller stays and finds water for his
thirst. All these are pleasant things, and men will
always be grateful to you. Remember your brother,
how you helped him in his need, how you fed him
and went security for him till he was able again to
secure his own living. You did well to him, surely
that is a pleasant thing.'
I do not think it difficult to see how the sick
man's face will lighten, how his eyes will brighten
at the thoughts that come to him at the old man's
words. And he goes on :
DEATH, THE DELIVERER 331
' Remember when the squall came up the river
and the boat upset when you were crossing here ;
how it seemed as if no man could live alone in such
waves, and yet how you clung to and saved the boy
who was with you, swimming through the water that
splashed over your head and very nearly drowned
you. The boy's father and mother have never for-
gotten that, and they are even now mourning without
in the veranda. It is all due to you that their lives
have not been full of misery and despair. Remember
their faces when you brought their little son to them
saved from death in the great river. Surely that is
a pleasant thing. Remember your wife who is now
with you ; how you have loved her and cherished
her, and kept faithful to her before all the world.
You have been a good husband to her, and you
have honoured her. She loves you, and you have
loved her all your long life together. Surely that is
a pleasant thing.'
Yes, surely these are pleasant things to have with
one at the last. Surely a man will die easier with
such memories as these before his eyes, with love
in those about him, and the calm of good deeds in
his dying heart. If it be a different way of soothing
a man's end to those which other nations use, is it
the worse for that ?
Think of your good deeds. It seems a new idea
to me that in doing well in our life we are making
for ourselves a pleasant death, because of the memory
332 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
of those things. And if we have none ? or if evil
so outnumbered the good deeds as to hide and
overwhelm them, what then ? His death will be
terrible indeed if he cannot in all his days remember
one good deed that he has done.
' All a man's life comes before him at the hour of
death,' said my informant ; ' all, from the earliest
memory to the latest breath. Like a whole land-
scape called by a flash of lightning out of the dark
night. It is all there, every bit of it, good and evil,
pleasure and pain, sin and righteousness.'
A man cannot escape from his life even in death.
In our acts of to-day we are determining what our
death will be ; if we have lived well, we shall die
well ; and if not, then not. As a man lives so shall
he die, is the teaching of Buddhism as of other
creeds.
So what Buddhism has to offer to the dying
believer is this, that if he live according to its
tenets he will die happily, and that in the life that
he will next enter upon he will be less and less
troubled by sin, less and less wedded to the lust of
life, until sometime, far away, he shall gain the great
Deliverance. He shall have perfect Peace, perfect
rest, perfect happiness, he and his, in that heaven
where his teacher went before him long ago.
And if we should say that this Deliverance from
life, this Great Peace, is Death, what matter, if it be
indeed Peace ?
[ 333 1
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE potter's wheel.
' Life is like a great whirlpool wherein we are dashed to and
fro by our passions.'—Saying of ^/ie Buddha.
It is a hard teaching, this of the Buddha about
death. It is a teaching that may appeal to the
reason, but not to the soul. That when life goes
out, this thing which we call ' I ' goes out with it.
and that love and remembrance are dead for ever.
It IS so hard a teaching that in its purity the
people cannot believe it. They accept it, but they
have added on to it a belief which changes the
whole form of it, a belief that is the outcome of that
weakness of humanity which insists that death is
not and cannot be all.
And so, though to the strict Buddhist death is
the end of all worldly passion, to the Burmese
villager that is not so. He cannot grasp, he cannot
endure that it should be so, and he has made for
himself out of Buddhism a belief that is opposed to
all Buddhism in this matter.
334 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
He believes in the transmigration of souls, in the
survival of the ' I.' The teaching that what survives
is not the ' I,' but only the result of its action, is too
deep for him to hold. True, if a flame dies the
effects that it has caused remain, and the flame is
dead for ever. A new flame is a new flame. But
the ' I ' of man cannot die, he thinks ; it lives and
loves for all time. i
He has made out of the teaching a new teaching
that is very far from that of the Buddha, and the
teaching is this : When a man dies his soul remains,
his ' I ' has only changed its habitation. Still it
lives and breathes on earth, not the effect, but the
soul itself. It is reborn among us, and it may even
be recognized very often in its new abode.
And that we should never forget this, that we
should never doubt that this is true, it has been so
ordered that many can remember something of
these former lives of theirs. This belief is not to a
Burman a mere theory, but is as true as anything
he can see. For does he not daily see people who
know of their former lives ? Nay, does he not him-
self, often vaguely, have glimpses of that former
life of his ? No man seems to be quite without it,
but of course it is clearer to some than others. Just
as we tell stories in the dusk of ghosts and second
sight, so do they, when the day's work is over,
gossip of stories of second birth ; only that they
believe in them far more than we do in ghosts.
THE POTTER'S WHEEL ...
3j5
A friend of mine put up for the night once at
a monastery far away in the forest near a small
village. He was travelling with an escort of
mounted police, and there was no place else to sleep
but in the monastery. The monk was, as usual,
hospitable, and put what he had, bare house-room,
at the officer's disposal, and he and his men settled
down for the night.
After dinner a fire was built on the ground, and
the officer went and sat by it and talked to the
headman of the village and the monk. First the\-
talked of the dacoits and of crops, unfailing subjects
of interest, and gradually they drifted Ifrom one
subject to another till the Englishman remarked
about the monastery, that it was a very large and
fine one for such a small secluded village to have
built. The monastery was of the best and
straightest teak, and must, he thought, have taken
a very long time and a great deal of labour to build,
for the teak must have been brought from very far
away; and in explanation he was told a curious
story.
It appeared that in the old days there used to be
only a bamboo and grass monastery there, such a
monastery as most jungle villages have ; and the
then monk was distressed at the smallness of his
abode and the little accommodation there was for
his school— a monastery is always a school. So one
rainy season he planted with great care a number of
336 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
teak seedlings round about, and he watered them
and cared for them. 'When they are grown up,'
he would say, ' these teak-trees shall provide
timber for a new and proper building ; and I will
myself return in another life, and with those trees
will I build a monastery more worthy than this.'
Teak-trees take a hundred years to reach a mature
size, and while the trees were still but saplings the
monk died, and another monk taught in his stead.
And so it went on, and the years went by, and from
time to time new monasteries of bamboo were
built and rebuilt, and the teak-trees grew bigger
and bigger. But the village grew smaller, for the
times were troubled, and the village was far away in
the forest. So it happened that at last the village
found itself without a monk at all : the last monk
was dead, and no one came to take his place.
It is a serious thing for a village to have no
monk. To begin with, there is no one to teach the
lads to read and write and do arithmetic ; and there
is no one to whom you can give offerings and
thereby get merit, and there is no one to preach to
you and tell you of the sacred teaching. So the
village was in a bad way.
Then at last one evening, when the girls were all
out at the well drawing water, they were surprised
by the arrival of a monk walking in from the forest,
weary with a long journey, footsore and hungry.
The villagers received him with enthusiasm, fear-
THE POTTER'S WHEEL
ing, however, that he was but passing through, and
they furbished up the old monastery in a hurry for
him to sleep in. But the curious thing was that
the monk seemed to know it all. He knew the
monastery and the path to it, and the ways about
the villaofe, and the names of the hills and the
streams. It seemed, indeed, as if he must once have
lived there in the village, and yet no one knew him
or recognized his face, though he was but a young
man still, and there were villagers who had lived
there for seventy years. Next morning, instead of
going on his way, the monk came into the village
with his begging-bowl, as monks do, and went
round and collected his food for the day ; and in
the evening, when the villagers wenr to see him at
the monastery, he told them he was going to stay.
He recalled to them the monk who had planted the
teak-trees, and how he had said that when the trees
were grown he would return. 'I,' said the young-
monk, ' am he that planted these trees. Lo, they
are grown up, and I am returned, and now we will
build a monastery as I said.'
When the villagers, doubting, questioned Iiim.
and old men came and talked to him of traditions of
long-past days, he answered as one who knew all.
He told them he had been born and educated far
away in the South, and had grown up not knowing
who he had been ; and that he had entered a
monastery, and in time became a Pongyi. The
338 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
remembrance came to him, he went on, m a dream
of how he had planted the trees and had promised
to return to that village far away in the forest.
The very next day he had started, and travelled
day after day and week upon week, till at length he
had arrived, as they saw. So the villagers were
convinced, and they set to work and cut down the
great boles, and built the monastery such as my
friend saw. And the monk lived there all his life,
and taught the children, and preached the marvel-
lous teaching of the great Buddha, till at length his
time came again and he returned ; for of monks it
is not said that they die, but that they return.
This is the common belief of the people. Into
this has the mystery of Dharma turned, in the
thoughts of the Burmese Buddhists, for no one can
believe the incomprehensible. A man has a soul,
and it passes from life to life, as a traveller from inn
to inn, till at length it is ended in heaven. But not
till he has attained heaven in his heart will he attain
heaven in reality.
Many children, the Burmese will tell you, re-
member their former lives. As they grow older the
memories die away and they forget, but to the
young children they are very clear. I have seen
many such.
About fifty years ago in a village named Okshit-
gon were born two children, a boy and a girl. They
were born on the same day in neighbouring houses,
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 339
and they grew up together, and played together,
and loved each other. And in due course they
married and started a family, and maintained them-
selves by cultivating their dry, barren fields about
the village. They were always known as devoted
to each other, and they died as they had lived —
together. The same death took them on the same
day ; so they were buried without the village and
were forgotten ; for the times were serious.
It was the year after the English army had taken
Mandalay, and all Burma was in a fury of insur-
rection. The country was full of armed men, the
roads were unsafe, and the nights were lighted with
the flames of burning villages. It was a bad time
for peace-loving men, and many such, fleeing from
their villages, took refuge in larger places nearer the
centres of administration.
Okshitgon was in the midst of one of the worst
of all the distressed districts, and many of its people
fled, and one of them, a man named Maung Kan,
with his young wife went to the village of Kabyu
and lived there.
Now, Maung Kan's wife had born to him twin
sons. They were born at Okshitgon shortly before
their parents had to run away, and they were named,
the eldest Maung Gyi, which is Brother Big-fellow,
and the younger Maung Nge, which means Brother
Little-fellow. These lads grew up at Kabyu, and
soon learned to talk ; and as they grew up their
22 — 2
340 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
parents were surprised to hear them calling to each
other at play, and calling each other, not Maung Gyi
and Maung Nge, but Maung San Nyein and Ma
Gywin. The latter is a woman's name, and the
parents remembered that these were the names of
the man and wife who had died in Okshitgon about
the time the children were born. \
So the parents thought that the souls of the mkn
and wife had entered into the children, and they
took them to Okshitgon to try them. The children
knew everything in Okshitgon ; they knew the roads
and the houses and the people, and they recognized
the clothes they used to wear in a former life ; there
was no doubt about it. One of them, the younger,
remembered, too, how she had borrowed two rupees
once of a woman. Ma Thet, unknown to her
husband, and left the debt unpaid. Ma Thet was
still living, and so they asked her, and she recol-
lected that it was true she had lent the money long
ago. I did not hear that the children's father repaid
the two rupees.
Shortly afterwards I saw these two children.
They are now just over six years old. The elder,
into whom the soul of the man entered, is a fat,
chubby little fellow, but the younger twin is smaller,
and has a curious dreamy look in his face, more like
a girl than a boy. They told me much about their
former lives. After they died they said they lived
for sometime without a body at all, wandering in
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 341
the air and hiding in the trees. This was for their
sins. Then, after some months, they were born
again as twin boys. ' It used,' said the elder boy,
' to be so clear, I could remember everything ; but it
is getting duller and duller, and I cannot now re-
member as I used to do.'
Of children such as this you may find any number.
Only you have to look for them, as they are not
brought forward spontaneously. The Burmese, like
other people, hate to have their beliefs and ideas
ridiculed, and from experience they have learned
that the object of a foreigner in inquiring into their
ways is usually to be able to show by his contempt
how very much cleverer a man he is than they
are. Therefore they are very shy. But once they
understand that you only desire to learn and to
see, and that you will always treat them with
courtesy and consideration, they will tell you all
that they think.
A fellow officer of mine has a Burmese police
orderly, a young man about twenty, who has been
with him since he came to the district two years
ago. Yet my friend only discovered accidentally
the other day that his orderly remembers his former
life. He is very unwilling to talk about it. He
was a woman apparently in that former life, and
lived about twenty miles away. He must have
lived a good life, for it is a step of promotion to be a
man in this life ; but he will not talk of it. He
342 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
forgets most of it, he says, though he remembered
it when he was a child.
Sometimes this belief leads to lawsuits of a
peculiarly difficult nature. In 1883, two years
before the annexation of Upper Burma, there was
a case that came into the local Court of the oil
district which depended upon this theory of trans-
migration.
Opposite Yenangyaung there are many large
islands in the river. These islands during the low
water months are joined to the mainland, and are
covered with a dense high grass in which many deer
live.
When the river rises, it rises rapidly, communica-
tion with the mainland is cut off, and the islands are
for a time, in the higher rises, entirely submerged.
During the progress of the first rise some hunters
went to one of these islands where many deer were
to be found and set fire to the grass to drive them
out of cover, shooting them as they came out.
Some deer, fleeing before the fire, swam across and
escaped, others fell victims, but one fawn, barely
half grown, ran right down the island, and in its
blind terror it leaped into a boat at anchor there.
This boat was that of a fisherman who was plying
his trade at some distance, and the only occupant
of the boat was his wife. Now this woman had a
year or so before lost her son, very much loved by
her, but who was not quite of the best character,
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 345
and when she saw the deer leaping into the boat,
she at once fancied that she saw the soul of her
erring son looking at her out of its great terrified
eyes. So she got up and took the poor panting
beast in her arms and soothed it, and when the
hunters came running to her to claim it she refused.
' He is my son,' she said, ' he is mine. Shall I give
him up to death ?' The hunters clamoured and
threatened to take the deer by force, but the woman
was quite firm. She would never give him up
except with her life. ' You can see,' she said, ' that
it is true that he is my son. He came running
straight to me. as he always did in his trouble when
he was a boy, and he is now quite quiet and con-
tented, instead of being afraid of me as an ordinary
deer would be.' And it was quite true that the
deer took to her at once, and remained with her
willingly. So the hunters went off to the court of
the governor and filed a suit for the deer.
The case was tried in open court, and the deer
was produced with a ribbon round its neck. Evi-
dence there was naturally but little. The hunters
claimed the deer because they had driven it out of
the island by their fire. The woman resisted the
claim on the ground that it was her son.
The decision of the court was this :
' The hunters are not entitled to the deer because
they cannot prove that the woman's son's soul is not
in the animal. The woman is not entitled to the
344 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
deer because she cannot prove that it is. The deer
will therefore remain with the court until some
properly authenticated claim is put in.'
So the two parties were turned out, the woman
in bitter tears, and the hunters angry and vexed,
and the deer remained the property of the judge.
But this decision was against all Burmese idqas
of justice. He should have given the deer to the
woman. ' He wanted it for himself,' said a Burman,
speaking to me of the affair. ' He probably killed
it and ate it. Surely it is true that officials are of
all the five evils the greatest.' Then my friend re-
membered that I was myself an official, and he
looked foolish, and began to make complimentary
remarks about English officials, that they would
never give such an iniquitous decision. I turned it
off by saying that no doubt the judge was now
suffering in some other life for the evil wrought in
the last, and the Burman said that probably he was
now inhabiting a tiger.
It is very easy to laugh at such beliefs ; nothing is,
indeed, easier than to be witty at the expense of any
belief. It is also very easy to say that it is all self-
deception, that the children merely imagine that
they remember their former lives, or are citing con-
versation of their elders.
How this may be I do not know. What is the
explanation of this, perhaps the only belief of which
we have any knowledge which is at once a living
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 345
belief to-day and was so as far back as we can get,
I do not pretend to say. For transmigration is no
theory of Buddhism at all, but was a leading tenet
in the far older faith of Brahmanism, of which
Buddhism was but an offshoot, as was Christianity
of Judaism.
I have not, indeed, attempted to reach the ex-
planation of things I have seen. When I have
satisfied myself that a belief is really held by the
people, that I am not the subject of conscious de-
ception, either by myself or others, I have conceived
that my work was ended.
There are those who, in investigating any foreign
customs and strange beliefs, can put their finger
here and say, ' This is where they are right ;' and
there and say, ' This belief is foolishly wrong and
idiotic' I am not, unfortunately, one of these
writers. I have no such confident belief in my own
infallibility of judgment as to be able to sit on high
and say, ' Here is truth, and here is error.'
I will leave my readers to make their own judg-
ment, if they desire to do so ; only asking them (as
they would not like their own beliefs to be scoffed
and sneered at) that they will treat with respect the
sincere beliefs of others, even if they cannot accept
them. It is only in this way that we can come to
understand a people and to sympathize with them.
It is hardly necessay to emphasize the enormous
effect that a belief in transmigration such as this has
346 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
upon the life and intercourse of the people. Of
their kindness to animals I have spoken elsewhere,
and it is possible this belief in transmigration has
something to do with it, but not, I think, much.
For if you wished to illtreat an animal, it would be
quite easy, even more easy, to suppose that an
enemy or a murderer inhabited the body of tl^e
animal, and that you were but carrying out the
decrees of fate by ill-using it. But when you love
an animal, it may increase that love and make it
reasonable, and not a thing to be ashamed of ; and it
brings the animal world nearer to you in general, it
bridges over the enormous void between man and
beast that other religions have made. Nothing-
humanizes a man more than love of animals.
I do not know if this be a paradox, I know that
it is a truth.
There was one point that puzzled me for a time
in some of these stories of transmigration, such as
the one I told about the man and wife being reborn
twins. It was this : A man dies and leaves behind
children, let us say, to whom he is devoutly
attached. He is reborn in another family in the
same village, maybe. It would be natural to sup-
pose that he would love his former famJly as much
as, or even more so than his new one. Complica-
tions might arise in this way which it is easy to
conceive would cause great and frequent difficulties.
I explained this to a Burman one day, and asked
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 347
him what happened, and this is what he said : ' The
affection of mother to son, of husband to wife, of
brother to sister, belongs entirely to the body in
which you may happen to be living. When it dies,
so do these affections. New affections arise from
the new body. The flesh of the son, being of one
with his father, of course loves him ; but as his
present flesh has no sort of connection with his
former one, he does not love those to whom he was
related in his other lives. These affections are as
much a part of the body as the hand or the eye-
sight ; with one you put off the other.'
Thus all love, to the learned, even the purest
affection of daughter to mother, of man to his friend,
IS in theory a function of the body — with the one
we put off the other ; and this may explain, perhaps,
something of what my previous chapter did not
make quite clear, that in the hereafter" of Buddhism
there is no affection.
When we have put off all bodies, when we have
attained Nirvana, love and hate, desire and re-
pulsion, will have fallen from us for ever.
Meanwhile, in each life, we are obliged to endure
the affections of the body into which we may be
born. It is the first duty of a monk, of him who is
trying to lead the purer life, to kill all these
affections, or rather to blend them into one great
* The hereafter = the state to which we attain when we have
done with earthly things.
348 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
compassion to all the world alike. ' Gayuna,' com-
passion, that is the only passion that will be left to
us. So say the learned.
I met a little girl not long ago, a wee little maiden
about seven years old, and she told me all about her
former life when she was a man. Her name was
Maung Mon, she said, and she used to work the
dolls in a travelling marionette show. It was
through her knowledge and partiality for marionettes
that it was first suspected, her parents told me,
whom she had been in her former life. She could
even as a sucking-child manipulate the strings of a
marionette - doll. But the actual discovery came
when she was about four years old, and she recog-
nized a certain marionette booth and dolls as her
own. She knew all about them, knew the name
of each doll, and even some of the words they used
to say in the plays. ' I was married four times,' she
told me. ' Two wives died, one I divorced ; one
was living when I died, and is living still. I loved
her very much indeed. The one I divorced was a
dreadful woman. See,' pointing to a scar on her
shoulder, ' this was given me once in a quarrel.
She took up a chopper and cut me like this. Then
I divorced her. She had a dreadful temper.'
It was immensely quaint to hear this little thing
discoursing like this. The mark was a birth-mark,
and I was assured that it corresponded exactly with
one that had been given to the man by his wife
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 349
in just such a quarrel as the one the little girl
described.
The divorced wife and the much-loved wife are
still alive and not yet old. The last wife wanted
the little girl to go and live with her. I asked her
why she did not go.
' You loved her so much, you know,' I said. ' She
was such a good wife to you. Surely you would
like to live with her again.'
' But all that,' she replied, ' was in a former life.'
Now she loved only her present father and
mother. The last life was like a dream. Broken
memories of it still remained, but the loves and
hates, the passions and impulses, were all dead.
Another little boy told me once that the way re-
membrance came to him was by seeing the silk he
used to wear made into curtains, which are given to
the monks and used as partitions in their monasteries,
and as walls to temporary erections made at festival
times. He was taken when some three years old to
a feast at the making of a lad, the son of a wealthy
merchant, into a monk. There he recognized in
the curtain walling in part of the bamboo building
his old dress. He pointed it out at once.
This same little fellow told me that • he passed
three months between his death and his next incar-
nation without a body. This was because he had
once accidentally killed a fowl. Had he killed it on
purpose, he would have been punished very much
350 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
more severely. Most of this three months he spent
dwelling in the hollow shell of a palm-fruit. The
nuisance was, he explained, that this shell was close
to the cattle-path, and that the lads as they drove
the cattle afield in the early morning would bang
with a stick against the shell. This made things
very uncomfortable for him inside. i
It is not an uncommon thing for a woman when
about to be delivered of a baby to have a dream,
and to see in that dream the spirit of someone ask-
ing for permission to enter the unborn child ; for, to
a certain extent, it lies within a woman's power to
say who is to be the life of her child.
There was a woman once who loved a young
man, not of her village, very dearly. And he loved
her, too, as dearly as she loved him, and he de-
manded her in marriage from her parents ; but they
refused. Why they refused I do not know, but
probably because they did not consider the young
man a proper person for their daughter to marry.
Then he tried to run away with her, and nearly
succeeded, but they were caught before they got
clear of the village.
The young man had to leave the neighbourhood.
The attempted abduction of a girl is an offence
severely punishable by law, so he fled ; and in time,
under pressure from her people, the girl married
another man ; but she never forgot. She lived with
her husband quite happily ; he was good to her, as
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 351
most Burmese husbands are, and they got along
well enough together. But there were no children.
After some years, four or five, I believe, the
former lover returned to his villag-e. He thouorht
that after this lapse of time he would be safe from
prosecution, and he was, moreover, very ill.
He was so ill that very soon he died, without
ever seeing again the girl he was so fond of ; and
when she heard of his death she was greatly dis-
tressed, so that the desire of life passed away from
her.
It so happened that at this very time she found
herself enceinte with her first child, and not long
before the due time came for the child to be born
she had a dream.
She dreamt that her soul left her body, and went
out into space and met there the soul of her lover
who had died. She was rejoiced to meet him again,
full of delight, so that the return of her soul to her
body, her awakening to a world in which he was not,
filled her with despair. So she prayed her lover,
if it was now time for him again to be incar-
nated, that he would come to her — that his soul
would enter the body of the little baby soon about
to be born, so that they two might be together in
life once more.
And in the dream the lover consented. He
would come, he said, into the child of the woman he
loved.
352 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
When the woman awoke she remembered it all,
and the desire of life returned to her again, and all
the world was changed because of the new life she
felt within her. But she told no one then of the
dream or of what was to happen.
Only she took the greatest care of herself; she
ate well, and went frequently to the pagoda with
flowers, praying that the body in which her lover
was about to dwell might be fair and strong, worthy
of him who took it, worthy of her who gave it.
In due time the baby was born. But alas and
alas for all her hopes ! The baby came but for a
moment, to breathe a few short breaths, to cry, and
to die ; and a few hours later the woman died also.
But before she went she told someone all about it,
all about the dream and the baby, and that she was
glad to go and follow her lover. She said that her
baby's soul was her lover's soul, and that as he
could not stay, neither would she ; and with these
words on her lips she followed him out into the
void.
The story was kept a secret until the husband
died, not long afterwards ; but when I came to the
village all the people knew it.
I must confess that this story is to me full of the
deepest reality, full of pathos. These stories seem
to me to be the unconscious protestation of humanity
against the dogmas of religion and of the learned.
However it may be stated that love is but one of
THE POTTER'S WHEEL 353
the bodily passions that dies with it, however, even
in the very stories themselves, this explanation is
used to clear certain difficulties, however opposed
eternal love may be to one of the central doctrines
of Buddhism, it seems to me that the very essence
of this story is the belief that love does not die with
the body, that it lives for ever and ever, through
incarnation after incarnation. These stories are the
very cry of the agony of humanity.
' Love is strong as death ; many waters cannot
quench love ;' ay, and love is stronger than death.
Not any dogmas of any religion, not any philosophy,
nothing in this world, nothing in the next, shall pre-
vent him who loves from the certainty of rejoining
some time the soul he loves.
Nothing can kill this hope. It comes up and up,
twisting theories of life, scorning the wisdom of the
wise and the folly of the foolish, sweeping every-
thing aside, until it reaches its unquenchable desire,
reunion of lover with lover. It is unconquerable,
eternal as God Himself. But no Buddhist would
admit this for a moment.
23
[ 354 ]
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FOREST OF TIME.
' The gate of that forest was Death.'
There was a great forest. It was full of giant trees
that grew so high and were so thick overhead that
the sunshine could not get down below. And there
were huge creepers that ran from tree to tree
climbing there, and throwing down great loops of
rope. Under the trees, growing along the ground,
were smaller creepers full of thorns, that tore the
wayfarer and barred his progress. The forest, too,
was full of snakes that crept along the ground, so
like in their gray and yellow skins to the earth they
travelled on that the traveller trod upon them un-
awares and was bitten ; and some so beautiful with
coral red and golden bars that men would pick them
up as some dainty jewel till the snake turned upon
them.
Here and there in this forest were little glades
wherein there were flowers. Beautiful flowers they
were, with deep white cups and broad glossy leaves
THE FOREST OF TIME 355
hiding the purple fruit ; and some had scarlet
blossoms that nodded to and fro like drowsy men,
and there were long festoons of white stars. The
air there was heavy with their scent. But they
were all full of thorns, only you could not see the
thorns till after you had plucked the blossom.
This wood was pierced by roads. Many were
very broad, leading through the forest in divers
ways, some of them stopping now and then in the
glades, others avoiding them more or less, but none
of them were straight. Always, if you followed
them, they bent and bent until after much travelling
you were where you began ; and the broader the
road, the softer the turf beneath it ; the sweeter the
glades that lined it, the quicker did it turn.
One road there was that went straight, but it was
far from the others. It led among the rocks and
cliffs that bounded one side of the valley. It was
very rough, very far from all the glades in the low-
lands. No flowers "frew beside it, there was no
moss or grass upon it, only hard sharp rocks. It
was very narrow, bordered with precipices.
There were many lights in this wood, lights that
flamed out like sunsets and died, lights that came
like lightning in the night and were gone. This
wood was never quite dark, it was so full of these
lights that flickered aimlessly.
There were men in this wood who wandered to
and fro. The wood was full of them.
356 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
They did not know whither they went ; they did
not know whither they wished to go. Only this
they knew, that they could never keep still ; for the
keeper of this wood was Time. He was armed with
a keen whip, and kept driving them on and on ;
there was no rest.
Many of these when they first came loved the
wood. The glades, they said, were very beautiful,
the flowers very sweet. And so they wandered
down the broad roads into the glades, and tried to
lie upon the moss and love the flowers ; but Time
would not let them. Just for a few moments they
could have peace, and then they must on and on.
But they did not care. ' The forest is full of
glades,' they said ; ' if we cannot live in one, we
can find another.' And so they went on finding
others and others, and each one pleased them less.
Some few there were who did not go to the
glades at all. * They are very beautiful,' they said,
' but these roads that pass through them, whither
do they lead ? Round and round and round again.
There is no peace there. Time rules in those
glades, Time with his whip and goad, and there is
no peace. What we want is rest. And those
lights,' they said, 'they are wandering lights, like
the summer lightning far down in the South,
moving hither and thither. We care not for such
lights. Our light is firm and clear. What we
desire is peace ; we do not care to wander for ever
THE FOREST OF TIME 357
round this forest, to see for ever those shifting
Hghts.'
And so they would not go down the winding
roads, but essayed the path upon the cliffs. ' It is
narrow,' they said, 'it has no flowers, it is full of
rocks, but it is straight. It will lead us somewhere,
not round and round and round again — it will take
us somewhere. And there is a light,' they said,
' before us, the light of a star. It is very small now,
but it is always steady ; it never flickers or wanes.
It is the star of Truth. Under that star we shall
find that which we seek.'
And so they went upon their road, toiling upon
the rocks, falling now and then, bleeding with
wounds from the sharp points, sore-footed, but
strong-hearted. And ever as they went they were
farther and farther from the forest, farther and
farther from the glades and the flowers with deadly
scents ; they heard less and less the crack of the
whip of Time falling upon the wanderers' shoulders.
The star grew nearer and nearer, the light grew
greater and greater, the false lights died behind
them, until at last they came out of the forest, and
there they found the lake that washes away all
desire under the sun of Truth.
They had won their way. Time and Life and
Fight and Struggle were behind them, could not
follow them, as they came, weary and footsore, into
the Great Peace.
358 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
And of those who were left behind, of those who
stayed in the glades to gather the deadly flowers, to
be driven ever forward by the whip of Time — what
of them ? Surely they will learn. The kindly
whip of Time is behind : he will never let them rest
in such a deadly forest ; they must go ever forward ;
and as they go they grow more and more weary,
the glades are more and more distasteful, the heav^-
scented blossoms more and more repulsive. They
will find out the thorns too. At first they forgot the
thorns in the flowers. ' The blossoms are beautiful,'
they said ; ' what care we for the thorns ? Nay, the
thorns are good. It is a pleasure to fight with
them. What would the forest be without its thorns ?
If we could gather the flowers and find no thorns,
we should not care for them. The more the thorns,
the more valuable the blossoms.'
So they said, and they gathered the blossoms,
and they faded. But the thorns did not fade ; they
were ever there. The more blossoms a man had
gathered, the more thorns he had to wear, and
Time was ever behind him. They wanted to rest
in the glades, but Time willed it ever they must go
forward ; no going back, no rest, ever and ever on.
So they grew very weary.
' These flowers,' they said at last, ' are always the
same. We are tired of them ; their smell is heavy ;
they are dead. This forest is full of thorns only.
How shall we escape from it ? Ever as we go
THE FOREST OF TIME 359
round and round we hate the flowers more, we feel
the thorns more acutely. We must escape ! We
are sick of Time and his whip, our feet are very,
very weary, our eyes are dazzled and dim. We.
too, would seek the Peace. We laughed at those
before who went along the rocky path ; we did not
want peace ; but now it seems to us the most
beautiful thing in the world. Will Time never
cease to drive us on and on } Will these lio-hts
never cease to flash to and fro }'
And so each man at last turns to the straight
road. He will find out. Every man will find out
at last that the forest is hateful, that the flowers are
deadly, that the thorns are terrible ; every man will
learn to fear Time.
And then, when the longing for peace has come,
he will go to the straight way and find it ; no man
will remain in the forest for ever. He will learn.
When he is very, very weary, when his feet are full
of thorns, and his back scarred with the lashes of
Time--great, kindly Time, the schoolmaster of the
world — he will learn.
Not till he has learnt will he desire to enter into
the straight road.
But in the end all men will come.
This is a Burman allegory of Buddhism. It was
told me long ago. I trust I have not spoilt it in the
retelline.
[ 36o ]
CHAPTER XXV.
CONCLUSION,
This is the end of my book. I have tried always
as I wrote to remember the principles that I laid
down for myself in the first chapter. Whether I
have always done so I cannot say. It is so difficult,
so very difficult, to understand a people — any
people — to separate their beliefs from their assents,
to discover the motives of their deeds, that I fear I
must often have failed.
My book is short. It would have been easy to
make a book out of each chapter, to write volumes
on each great subject that I have touched on ; but
I have not done so, I have always been as brief as I
could.
I have tried always to illustrate only the central
thought, and not the innumerable divergencies,
because only so can a great or strange thought be
made clear. Later, when the thought is known,
then it is easy to stray into the byways of thought.
CONCLUSION 361
always remembering that they are byways, wander-
ing from a great centre.
For the Burman's life and belief is one great
whole.
I thought before I began to write, and I have
become more and more certain of it as I have taken
up subject after subject, that to all the great differ-
ences of thought between them and us there is one
key. And this key is that they believe the world is
governed by eternal laws, that have never changed,
that will never change, that are founded on absolute
righteousness ; while we believe in a personal God,
altering laws, and changing moralities according to
His will.
If I were to rewrite this book, I should do so
from this standpoint of eternal laws, making the
book an illustration of the proposition.
Perhaps it is better as it is, in that I have dis-
covered the key at the end of my work instead of at
the beginning. I did not write the book to prove
the proposition, but in writing the book this truth
has become apparent to me.
The more I have written, the clearer has this
teaching become to me, until now I wonder that I
did not understand long ago — nay, that it has not
always been apparent to all men.
Surely it is the beginning of all wisdom.
Not until we had discarded Atlas and substituted
gravity, until we had forgotten Enceladus and
362 THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE
learned the laws of heat, until we had rejected
Thor and his hammer and searched after the
laws of electricity, could science make any strides
onward.
An irresponsible spirit playing with the world as
his toy killed all science.
But now science has learned a new wisdom, to
look only at what it can see, to leave vain imagin-
ings to children and idealists, certain always that
the truth is inconceivably more beautiful than any
dream.
Science with us has gained her freedom, but the
soul is still in bonds.
Only in Buddhism has this soul-freedom been
partly gained. How beautiful this is, how full of
great thoughts, how very different to the barren
materialism it has often been said to be, I have
tried to show.
I believe myself that in this teaching of the laws
of righteousness we have the grandest conception,
the greatest wisdom, the world has known.
I believe that in accepting this conception we are
opening to ourselves a new world of unimaginable
progress, in justice, in charity, in sympathy, and in
love.
I believe that as our minds, when freed from their
bonds, have grown more and more rapidly to
heights of thought before undreamed of, to truths
CONCLUSION 363
eternal, to beauty inexpressible, so shall our souls,
when freed, as our minds now are, rise to sublimities
of which now we have no conception.
Let each man but open his eyes and see, and his
own soul shall teach him marvellous things.
THE END.
BULINti AND SdNS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
/. D. ^^ Co.
' \vi
/4.l-> "5 <-
DS Fielding-Hall, Harold
U^5 The soul of a people
E82,F5
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