{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_29527/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_29527","id":"gutenberg_29527","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29527","summary":null,"tags":["Buddhism -- Burma","Burma -- Religion","Burma -- Social life and customs","Category: Archaeology & Anthropology","Category: History - Other","Category: Religion/Spirituality"],"text":"Produced by Steven Gibbs, Martin Pettit and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOUL OF A PEOPLE\n\n[Illustration: Publisher's logo]\n\nTHE SOUL OF A PEOPLE\n\n\nBY\n\nH. FIELDING\n\n\n'For to see things in their beauty is to see them in their truth'\n\nMATTHEW ARNOLD\n\n\nLondon\nMACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\nNEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n1899\n\n\n_First Edition, 1898_\n_Second Edition, 1898_\n_Third Edition, 1899_\n\n\n\n\nDEDICATION TO SECOND EDITION\n\n\n_I dedicate this book to you about whom it is written. It has been made\na reproach to me by the critics that I have only spoken well of you,\nthat I have forgotten your faults and remembered only your virtues. If\nit is wrong to have done this, I must admit the wrong. I have written of\nyou as a friend does of a friend. Where I could say kind things of you I\nhave done so, where I could not I have been silent. You will find plenty\nof people who can see only your faults, and who like to tell you of\nthem. You will find in the inexorable sequence of events a corrector of\nthese faults more potent than any critics can be. But I am not your\ncritic, but your friend. If many of you had not admitted me, a stranger,\ninto your friendship during my many very solitary years, of what sort\nshould I be now? How could I have lived those years alone? You kept\nalive my sympathies, and so saved me from many things. Do you think I\ncould now turn round and criticise you? No; but this book is my tribute\nof gratitude for many kindnesses._\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nIn most of the quotations from Burmese books containing the life of the\nBuddha I am indebted, if not for the exact words, yet for the sense, to\nBishop Bigandet's translation.\n\nI do not think I am indebted to anyone else. I have, indeed, purposely\navoided quoting from any other book and using material collected by\nanyone else.\n\nThe story of Ma Pa Da has appeared often before, but my version is taken\nentirely from the Burmese song. It is, as I have said, known to nearly\nevery Burman.\n\nI wanted to write only what the Burmese themselves thought; whether I\nhave succeeded or not, the reader can judge.\n\nI am indebted to Messrs. William Blackwood and Sons for permission to\nuse parts of my article on 'Burmese Women'--_Blackwood's Magazine_, May,\n1895--in the present work.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nCHAPTER                               PAGE\n\n    I. LIVING BELIEFS                    1\n\n   II. HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT--I.       17\n\n  III. HE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT--II.      34\n\n   IV. THE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE       46\n\n    V. WAR--I.                          56\n\n   VI. WAR--II.                         77\n\n  VII. GOVERNMENT                       87\n\n VIII. CRIME AND PUNISHMENT            102\n\n   IX. HAPPINESS                       116\n\n    X. THE MONKHOOD--I.                127\n\n   XI. THE MONKHOOD--II.               153\n\n  XII. PRAYER                          158\n\n XIII. FESTIVALS                       166\n\n  XIV. WOMEN--I.                       185\n\n   XV. WOMEN--II.                      205\n\n  XVI. WOMEN--III.                     224\n\n XVII. DIVORCE                         228\n\nXVIII. DRINK                           242\n\n XIX. MANNERS                          248\n\n  XX. 'NOBLESSE OBLIGE'                256\n\n  XXI. ALL LIFE IS ONE                 277\n\n XXII. DEATH, THE DELIVERER            302\n\nXXIII. THE POTTER'S WHEEL              322\n\n XXIV. THE FOREST OF TIME              342\n\n  XXV. CONCLUSION                      348\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOUL OF A PEOPLE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nLIVING BELIEFS\n\n     'The observance of the law alone entitles to the right of belonging\n     to my religion.'--_Saying of the Buddha._\n\n\nFor the first few years of my stay in Burma my life was so full of\nexcitement that I had little care or time for any thought but of to-day.\nThere was, first of all, my few months in Upper Burma in the King's time\nbefore the war, months which were full of danger and the exhilaration of\ndanger, when all the surroundings were too new and too curious to leave\nleisure for examination beneath the surface. Then came the flight from\nUpper Burma at the time of the war, and then the war itself. And this\nwar lasted four years. Not four years of fighting in Burma proper, for\nmost of the Irrawaddy valley was peaceful enough by the end of 1889; but\nas the central parts quieted down, I was sent to the frontier, first on\nthe North and then on the East by the Chin mountains; so that it was not\nuntil 1890 that a transfer to a more settled part gave me quiet and\nopportunity for consideration of all I had seen and known. For it was in\nthose years that I gained most of whatever little knowledge I have of\nthe Burmese people.\n\nMonths, very many months, I passed with no one to speak to, with no\nother companions but Burmese. I have been with them in joy and in\nsorrow, I have fought with them and against them, and sat round the\ncamp-fire after the day's work and talked of it all. I have had many\nfriends amongst them, friends I shall always honour; and I have seen\nthem killed sometimes in our fights, or dead of fever in the marshes of\nthe frontier. I have known them from the labourer to the Prime Minister,\nfrom the little neophyte just accepted into the faith to the head of all\nthe Burmese religion. I have known their wives and daughters; have\nwatched many a flirtation in the warm scented evenings; and have seen\ngirls become wives and wives mothers while I have lived amongst them. So\nthat although when the country settled down, and we built houses for\nourselves and returned more to English modes of living, I felt that I\nwas drifting away from them into the conventionality and ignorance of\nour official lives, yet I had in my memory much of what I had seen, much\nof what I had done, that I shall never forget. I felt that I had\nbeen--even if it were only for a time--behind the veil, where it is so\nhard to come.\n\nIn looking over these memories it seemed to me that there were many\nthings I did not understand, acts of theirs and customs, which I had\nseen and noted, but of which I did not know the reason. We all know how\nhard it is to see into the heart even of our own people, those of our\nflesh and blood who are with us always, whose ways are our ways, and\nwhose thoughts are akin to ours. And if this be so with them, it is ten\nthousand times harder with those whose ways are not our ways, and from\nwhose thoughts we must be far apart. It is true that there are no dark\nplaces in the lives of the Burmese as there are in the lives of other\nOrientals. All is open to the light of day in their homes and in their\nreligion, and their women are the freest in the world. Yet the barriers\nof a strange tongue and a strange religion, and of ways caused by\nanother climate than ours, is so great that, even to those of us who\nhave every wish and every opportunity to understand, it seems sometimes\nas if we should never know their hearts. It seems as if we should never\nlearn more of their ways than just the outside--that curiously varied\noutside which is so deceptive, and which is so apt to prevent our\nunderstanding that they are men just as we are, and not strange\ncreations from some far-away planet.\n\nSo when I settled down and sought to know more of the meaning of what I\nhad seen, I thought that first of all I must learn somewhat of their\nreligion, of that mainspring of many actions, which seemed sometimes\nadmirable, sometimes the reverse, and nearly always foreign to my ideas.\nIt is true that I knew they were Buddhists, that I recognized the\nyellow-robed monks as followers of the word of Gaudama the Buddha, and\nthat I had a general acquaintance with the theory of their faith as\npicked up from a book or two--notably, Rhys Davids' 'Buddhism' and\nBishop Bigandet's book--and from many inconsequent talks with the monks\nand others. But the knowledge was but superficial, and I was painfully\naware that it did not explain much that I had seen and that I saw every\nday.\n\nSo I sent for more books, such books as had been published in English,\nand I studied them, and hoped thereby to attain the explanations I\nwanted; and as I studied, I watched as I could the doings of the people,\nthat I might see the effects of causes and the results of beliefs. I\nread in these sacred books of the mystery of Dharma, of how a man has no\nsoul, no consciousness after death; that to the Buddhist 'dead men rise\nup never,' and that those who go down to the grave are known no more. I\nread that all that survives is the effect of a man's actions, the evil\neffect, for good is merely negative, and that this is what causes pain\nand trouble to the next life. Everything changes, say the sacred books,\nnothing lasts even for a moment. It will be, and it has been, is the\nlife of man. The life that lives tomorrow in the next incarnation is no\nmore the life that died in the last than the flame we light in the lamp\nto-day is the same that went out yesternight. It is as if a stone were\nthrown into a pool--that is the life, the splash of the stone; all that\nremains, when the stone lies resting in the mud and weeds below the\nwaters of forgetfulness, are the circles ever widening on the surface,\nand the ripples never dying, but only spreading farther and farther\naway. All this seemed to me a mystery such as I could not understand.\nBut when I went to the people, I found that it was simple enough to\nthem; for I found that they remembered their former lives often, that\nchildren, young children, could tell who they were before they died, and\nremember details of that former existence. As they grew older the\nremembrance grew fainter and fainter, and at length almost died away.\nBut in many children it was quite fresh, and was believed in beyond\npossibility of a doubt by all the people. So I saw that the teachings of\ntheir sacred books and the thoughts of the people were not at one in\nthis matter.\n\nAgain, I read that there was no God. Nats there were, spirits of great\npower like angels, and there was the Buddha (the just man made perfect),\nwho had worked out for all men the way to reach surcease from evil; but\nof God I saw nothing. And because the Buddha had reached heaven\n(Nirvana), it would be useless to pray to him. For, having entered into\nhis perfect rest, he could not be disturbed by the sharp cry of those\nsuffering below; and if he heard, still he could not help; for each man\nmust through pain and sorrow work out for himself his own salvation. So\nall prayer is futile.\n\nThen I remembered I had seen the young mother going to the pagoda on the\nhilltop with a little offering of a few roses or an orchid spray, and\npouring out her soul in passionate supplication to Someone--Someone\nunknown to her sacred books--that her firstborn might recover of his\nfever, and be to her once more the measureless delight of her life; and\nit would seem to me that she must believe in a God and in prayer after\nall.\n\nSo though I found much in these books that was believed by the people,\nand much that was to them the guiding influence of their lives, yet I\nwas unable to trust to them altogether, and I was in doubt where to seek\nfor the real beliefs of these people. If I went to their monks, their\nholy men, the followers of the great teacher, Gaudama, they referred me\nto their books as containing all that a Buddhist believed; and when I\npointed out the discrepancies, they only shook their heads, and said\nthat the people were an ignorant people and confused their beliefs in\nthat way.\n\nAnd when I asked what was a Buddhist, I was told that, to be a Buddhist,\na man must be accepted into the religion with certain rites, certain\nceremonies, he must become for a time a member of the community of the\nmonks of the Buddha, and that a Buddhist was he who was so accepted, and\nwho thereafter held by the teachings of the Buddha.\n\nBut when I searched the life of the Buddha, I could not find any such\nceremonies necessary at all. So that it seemed that the religion of the\nBuddha was one religion, and the religion of the Buddhists another; but\nwhen I said so to the monks, they were horror-struck, and said that it\nwas because I did not understand.\n\nIn my perplexity I fell back, as we all must, to my own thoughts and\nthose of my own people; and I tried to imagine how a Burman would act if\nhe came to England to search into the religion of the English and to\nknow the impulses of our lives.\n\nI saw how he would be sent to the Bible as the source of our religion,\nhow he would be told to study that if he would know what we believed and\nwhat we did not--what it was that gave colour to our lives. I followed\nhim in imagination as he took the Bible and studied it, and then went\nforth and watched our acts, and I could see him puzzled, as I was now\npuzzled when I studied his people.\n\nI thought of him reading the New Testament, and how he would come to\nthese verses:\n\n'27. But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them\nwhich hate you,\n\n'28. Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use\nyou.\n\n'29. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the\nother; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid him not to take thy\ncoat also.\n\n'30. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away\nthy goods ask them not again.'\n\nHe would read them again and again, these wonderful verses, that he was\ntold the people and Church believed, and then he would go forth to\nobserve the result of this belief. And what would he see? He would see\nthis: A nation proud and revengeful, glorying in her victories, always\nat war, a conqueror of other peoples, a mighty hater of her enemies. He\nwould find that in the public life of the nation with other nations\nthere was no thought of this command. He would find, too, in her inner\nlife, that the man who took a cloak was not forgiven, but was terribly\npunished--he used to be hanged. He would find---- But need I say what he\nwould find? Those who will read this are those very people--they know.\nAnd the Burman would say at length to himself, Can this be the belief of\nthis people at all? Whatever their Book may say, they do not think that\nit is good to humble yourself to your enemies--nay, but to strike hard\nback. It is not good to let the wrong-doer go free. They think the best\nway to stop crime is to punish severely. Those are their acts; the Book,\nthey say, is their belief. Could they act one thing and believe another?\nTruly, _are_ these their beliefs?\n\nAnd, again, he would read how that riches are an offence to\nrighteousness: hardly shall a rich man enter into the kingdom of God. He\nwould read how the Teacher lived the life of the poorest among us, and\ntaught always that riches were to be avoided.\n\nAnd then he would go forth and observe a people daily fighting and\nstruggling to add field to field, coin to coin, till death comes and\nends the fight. He would see everywhere wealth held in great estimation;\nhe would see the very children urged to do well, to make money, to\nstruggle, to rise in the world. He would see the lives of men who have\nbecome rich held up as examples to be followed. He would see the\nministers who taught the Book with fair incomes ranking themselves, not\nwith the poor, but with the middle classes; he would see the dignitaries\nof the Church--the men who lead the way to heaven--among the wealthy of\nthe land. And he would wonder. Is it true, he would say to himself, that\nthese people believe that riches are an evil thing? Whence, then, come\ntheir acts, for their acts seem to show that they hold riches to be a\ngood thing? What is to be accepted as their belief: the Book they say\nthey believe, which condemns riches, or their acts, by which they show\nthat they hold that wealth is a good thing--ay, and if used according to\ntheir ideas of right, a very good thing indeed?\n\nSo, it seemed to me, would a Burman be puzzled if he came to us to find\nout our belief; and as the Burman's difficulty in England was, _mutatis\nmutandis_, mine in Burma, I set to work to think the matter out. How\nwere the beliefs of a people to be known, and why should there be such\ndifficulties in the way? If I could understand how it was with us, it\nmight help me to know how it was with them.\n\nAnd I have thought that the difficulty arises from the fact that there\nare two ways of seeing a religion--from within and from without--and\nthat these are as different as can possibly be. It is because we forget\nthere are the two standpoints that we fall into error.\n\nIn every religion, to the believers in it, the crown and glory of their\ncreed is that it is a revelation of truth, a lifting of the veil, behind\nwhich every man born into this mystery desires to look.\n\nThey are sure, these believers, that they have the truth, that they\nalone have the truth, and that it has come direct from where alone truth\ncan live. They believe that in their religion alone lies safety for man\nfrom the troubles of this world and from the terrors and threats of the\nnext, and that those alone who follow its teaching will reach happiness\nhereafter, if not here. They believe, too, that this truth only requires\nto be known to be understood and accepted of all men; that as the sun\nrequires no witness of its warmth, so the truth requires no evidence of\nits truth.\n\nIt is to them so eternally true, so matchless in beauty, so convincing\nin itself, that adherents of all other creeds have but to hear it\npronounced and they must believe. So, then, the question, How do you\nknow that your faith is true? is as vain and foolish as the cry of the\nwind in an empty house. And if they be asked wherein lies their\nreligion, they will produce their sacred books, and declare that in them\nis contained the whole matter. Here is the very word of truth, herein is\ntold the meaning of all things, herein alone lies righteousness. This,\nthey say, is their faith: that they believe in every line of it, this\ntruth from everlasting to everlasting, and that its precepts, and none\nother, can be held by him who seeks to be a sincere believer. And to\nthese believers the manifestation of their faith is that its believers\nattain salvation hereafter. But as that is in the next world, if the\nunbeliever ask what is the manifestation in this, the believers will\nanswer him that the true mark and sign whereby a man may be known to\nhold the truth is the observance of certain forms, the performance of\ncertain ceremonies, more or less mystical, more or less symbolical, of\nsome esoteric meaning. That a man should be baptized, should wear\ncertain marks on his forehead, should be accepted with certain rites, is\ngenerally the outward and visible sign of a believer, and the badge\nwhereby others of the same faith have known their fellows.\n\nIt has never been possible for any religion to make the acts and deeds\nof its followers the test of their belief. And for these reasons: that\nit is a test no one could apply, and that if anyone were to attempt to\napply it, there would soon be no Church at all. For to no one is it\ngiven to be able to observe in their entirety all the precepts of their\nprophet, whoever that prophet may be. All must fail, some more and some\nless, but generally more, and thus all would fall from the faith at some\ntime or another, and there would be no Church left. And so another test\nhas been made necessary. If from his weakness a man cannot keep these\nprecepts, yet he can declare his belief in and his desire to keep them,\nand here is a test that can be applied. Certain rites have been\ninstituted, and it has been laid down that those who by their submission\nto these rites show their belief in the truth and their desire to follow\nthat truth as far as in them lies, shall be called the followers of the\nfaith. So in time it has come about that these ceremonial rites have\nbeen held to be the true and only sign of the believer, and the fact\nthat they were but to be the earnest of the beginning and living of a\nnew life has become less and less remembered, till it has faded into\nnothingness. Instead of the life being the main thing, and being\nabsolutely necessary to give value and emphasis to the belief, it has\ncome to pass that it is the belief, and the acceptance of the belief,\nthat has been held to hallow the life and excuse and palliate its\nerrors.\n\nThus of every religion is this true, that its essence is a belief that\ncertain doctrines are revelations of eternal truth, and that the fruit\nof this truth is the observance of certain forms. Morality and works\nmay or may not follow, but they are immaterial compared with the other.\nThis, put shortly, is the view of every believer.\n\nBut to him who does not believe in a faith, who views it from without,\nfrom the standpoint of another faith, the whole view is changed, the\nwhole perspective altered. Those landmarks which to one within the\ncircle seem to stand out and overtop the world are to the eyes of him\nwithout dwarfed often into insignificance, and other points rise into\nimportance.\n\nFor the outsider judges a religion as he judges everything else in this\nworld. He cannot begin by accepting it as the only revelation of truth;\nhe cannot proceed from the unknown to the known, but the reverse. First\nof all, he tries to learn what the beliefs of the people really are, and\nthen he judges from their lives what value this religion has to them. He\nlooks to acts as proofs of beliefs, to lives as the ultimate effects of\nthoughts. And he finds out very quickly that the sacred books of a\npeople can never be taken as showing more than approximately their real\nbeliefs. Always through the embroidery of the new creed he will find the\nfoundation of an older faith, of older faiths, perhaps, and below these,\nagain, other beliefs that seem to be part of no system, but to be the\noutcome of the great fear that is in the world.\n\nThe more he searches, the more he will be sure that there is only one\nguide to a man's faith, to his soul, and that is not any book or system\nhe may profess to believe, but the real system that he follows--that is\nto say, that a man's beliefs can be known even to himself from his acts\nonly. For it is futile to say that a man believes in one thing and does\nanother. That is not a belief at all. A man may cheat himself, and say\nit is, but in his heart he knows that it is not. A belief is not a\nproposition to be assented to, and then put away and forgotten. It is\nalways in our minds, and for ever in our thoughts. It guides our every\naction, it colours our whole life. It is not for a day, but for ever.\nWhen we have learnt that a cobra's bite is death, we do not put the\nbelief away in a pigeon-hole of our minds, there to rust for ever\nunused, nor do we go straightway and pick up the first deadly snake that\nwe see. We remember it always; we keep it as a guiding principle of our\ndaily lives.\n\nA belief is a strand in the cord of our lives, that runs through every\nfathom of it, from the time that it is first twisted among the others\ntill the time when that life shall end. And as it is thus impossible for\nthe onlooker to accept from adherents of a creed a definition of what\nthey really believe, so it is impossible for him to acknowledge the\nforms and ceremonies of which they speak as the real manifestations of\ntheir creed.\n\nIt seems to the onlooker indifferent that men should be dipped in water\nor not, that they should have their heads shaved or wear long hair. Any\nbelief that is worth considering at all must have results more\nimportant to its believers, more valuable to mankind, than such signs as\nthese. It is true that of the great sign of all, that the followers of a\ncreed attain heaven hereafter, he cannot judge. He can only tell of what\nhe sees. This may or may not be true; but surely, if it be true, there\nmust be some sign of it here on earth beyond forms. A religion that fits\na soul for the hereafter will surely begin by fitting it for the\npresent, he will think. And it will show that it does so otherwise than\nby ceremonies.\n\nFor forms and ceremonies that have no fruit in action are not marks of a\nliving truth, but of a dead dogma. There is but little thought of forms\nto him whose heart is full of the teaching of his Master, who has His\nwords within his heart, and whose soul is full of His love. It is when\nbeliefs die, and love has faded into indifference, that forms are\nnecessary, for to the living no monument is needed, but to the dead.\nForms and ceremonies are but the tombs of dead truths, put up to their\nmemory to recall to those who have never known them that they lived--and\ndied--long ago.\n\nAnd because men do not seek for signs of the living among the graveyards\nof the dead, so it is not among the ceremonies of religions that we\nshall find the manifestations of living beliefs.\n\nIt is from the standpoint of this outsider that I have looked at and\ntried to understand the soul of the Burmese people. When I have read or\nheard of a teaching of Buddhism, I have always taken it to the test of\nthe daily life of the people to see whether it was a living belief or\nno. I have accepted just so much as I could find the people have\naccepted, such as they have taken into their hearts to be with them for\never. A teaching that has been but a teaching or theory, a vain breath\nof mental assent, has seemed to me of no value at all. The guiding\nprinciples of their lives, whether in accordance with the teaching of\nBuddhism or not, these only have seemed to me worthy of inquiry or\nunderstanding. What I have desired to know is not their minds, but their\nsouls. And as this test of mine has obliged me to omit much that will be\nfound among the dogmas of Buddhism, so it has led me to accept many\nthings that have no place there at all. For I have thought that what\nstirs the heart of man is his religion, whether he calls it religion or\nnot. That which makes the heart beat and the breath come quicker, love\nand hate, and joy and sorrow--that has been to me as worthy of record as\nhis hopes of a future life. The thoughts that come into the mind of the\nploughman while he leads his team afield in the golden glory of the\ndawn; the dreams that swell and move in the heart of the woman when she\nknows the great mystery of a new life; whither the dying man's hopes and\nfears are led--these have seemed to me the religion of the people as\nwell as doctrines of the unknown. For are not these, too, of the very\nsoul of the people?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nHE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT--I\n\n     'He who pointed out the way to those that had lost it.'\n                                           _Life of the Buddha._\n\n\nThe life-story of Prince Theiddatha, who saw the light and became the\nBuddha twenty-five centuries ago, has been told in English many times.\nIt has been told in translations from the Pali, from Burmese, and from\nChinese, and now everyone has read it. The writers, too, of these books\nhave been men of great attainments, of untiring industry in searching\nout all that can be known of this life, of gifts such as I cannot aspire\nto. There is now nothing new to learn of those long past days, nothing\nfresh for me to tell, no discovery that can be made. Yet in thinking out\nwhat I have to say about the religion of the Burmese, I have found that\nI must tell again some of the life of the Buddha, I must rewrite this\nten-times-told tale, of which I know nothing new. And the reason is\nthis: that although I know nothing that previous writers have not known,\nalthough I cannot bring to the task anything like their knowledge, yet\nI have something to say that they have not said. For they have written\nof him as they have learned from books, whereas I want to write of him\nas I have learned from men. Their knowledge has been taken from the\nrecords of the dead past, whereas mine is from the actualities of the\nliving present.\n\nI do not mean that the Buddha of the sacred books and the Buddha of the\nBurman's belief are different persons. They are the same. But as I found\nit with their faith, so I find it with the life of their teacher. The\nBurmese regard the life of the Buddha from quite a different standpoint\nto that of an outsider, and so it has to them quite a different value,\nquite a different meaning, to that which it has to the student of\nhistory. For to the writer who studies the life of the Buddha with a\nview merely to learn what that life was, and to criticise it, everything\nis very different to what it is to the Buddhist who studies that life\nbecause he loves it and admires it, and because he desires to follow it.\nTo the former the whole detail of every portion of the life of the\nBuddha, every word of his teaching, every act of his ministry, is sought\nout and compared and considered. Legend is compared with legend, and\ntradition with tradition, that out of many authorities some clue to the\nactual fact may be found. But to the Buddhist the important parts in the\ngreat teacher's life are those acts, those words, that appeal directly\nto him, that stand out bravely, lit with the light of his own\nexperiences and feelings, that assist him in living his own life. His\nBuddha is the Buddha he understands, and who understood and sympathized\nwith such as him. Other things may be true, but they are matters of\nindifference.\n\nTo hear of the Buddha from living lips in this country, which is full of\nhis influence, where the spire of his monastery marks every village, and\nwhere every man has at one time or another been his monk, is quite a\ndifferent thing to reading of him in far countries, under other skies\nand swayed by other thoughts. To sit in the monastery garden in the\ndusk, in just such a tropic dusk as he taught in so many years ago, and\nhear the yellow-robed monk tell of that life, and repeat his teaching of\nlove, and charity, and compassion--eternal love, perfect charity,\nendless compassion--until the stars come out in the purple sky, and the\nsilver-voiced gongs ring for evening prayers, is a thing never to be\nforgotten. As you watch the starlight die and the far-off hills fade\ninto the night, as the sounds about you still, and the calm silence of\nthe summer night falls over the whole earth, you know and understand the\nteacher of the Great Peace as no words can tell you. A sympathy comes to\nyou from the circle of believers, and you believe, too. An influence and\nan understanding breathes from the nature about you--the same nature\nthat the teacher saw--from the whispering fig-trees and the scented\nchampaks, and the dimly seen statues in the shadows of the shrines, that\nyou can never gain elsewhere. And as the monks tell you the story of\nthat great life, they bring it home to you with reflection and comment,\nwith application to your everyday existence, till you forget that he of\nwhom they speak lived so long ago, so very long ago, and your heart is\nfilled with sorrow when you remember that he is dead, that he is entered\ninto his peace.\n\nI do not hope that I can convey much of this in my writing. I always\nfeel the hopelessness of trying to put on paper the great thoughts, the\nintense feeling, of which Buddhism is so full. But still I can, perhaps,\ngive something of this life as I have heard it, make it a little more\nliving than it has been to us, catch some little of that spirit of\nsympathy that it holds for all the world.\n\nAround the life of the Buddha has gathered much myth, like dust upon an\nancient statue, like shadows upon the mountains far away, blurring\ndetail here and there, and hiding the beauty. There are all sorts of\nstories of the great portents that foretold his coming: how the sun and\nthe stars knew, and how the wise men prophesied. Marvels attended his\nbirth, and miracles followed him in life and in death. And the\nappearance of the miraculous has even been heightened by the style of\nthe chroniclers in telling us of his mental conflicts: by the\npersonification of evil in the spirit Man, and of desire in his three\nbeautiful daughters.\n\nAll the teacher's thoughts, all his struggles, are materialized into\nforms, that they may be more readily brought home to the reader, that\nthey may be more clearly realized by a primitive people as actual\nconflicts.\n\nTherefore at first sight it seems that of all creeds none is so full of\nmiracle, so teeming with the supernatural, as Buddhism, which is,\nindeed, the very reverse of the truth. For to the supernatural Buddhism\nowes nothing at all. It is in its very essence opposed to all that goes\nbeyond what we can see of earthly laws, and miracle is never used as\nevidence of the truth of any dogma or of any doctrine.\n\nIf every supernatural occurrence were wiped clean out of the chronicles\nof the faith, Buddhism would, even to the least understanding of its\nfollowers, remain exactly where it is. Not in one jot or tittle would it\nsuffer in the authority of its teaching. The great figure of the teacher\nwould even gain were all the tinsel of the miraculous swept from him, so\nthat he stood forth to the world as he lived--would gain not only to our\neyes, but even to theirs who believe in him. For the Buddha was no\nprophet. He was no messenger from any power above this world, revealing\nlaws of that power. No one came to whisper into his ear the secrets of\neternity, and to show him where truth lived. In no trance, in no\nvision, did he enter into the presence of the Unknown, and return from\nthence full of the wisdom of another world; neither did he teach the\nworship of any god, of any power. He breathed no threatenings of revenge\nfor disobedience, of forgiveness for the penitent. He held out no\neverlasting hell to those who refused to follow him, no easily gained\nheaven to his believers.\n\nHe went out to seek wisdom, as many a one has done, looking for the laws\nof God with clear eyes to see, with a pure heart to understand, and\nafter many troubles, after many mistakes, after much suffering, he came\nat last to the truth.\n\nEven as Newton sought for the laws of God in the movement of the stars,\nin the falling of a stone, in the stir of the great waters, so this\nNewton of the spiritual world sought for the secrets of life and death,\nlooking deep into the heart of man, marking its toil, its suffering, its\nlittle joys, with a soul attuned to catch every quiver of the life of\nthe world. And as to Newton truth did not come spontaneously, did not\nreveal itself to him at his first call, but had to be sought with toil\nand weariness, till at last he reached it where it hid in the heart of\nall things, so it was with the prince. He was not born with the\nknowledge in him, but had to seek it as every other man has done. He\nmade mistakes as other men do. He wasted time and labour following wrong\nroads, demonstrating to himself the foolishness of many thoughts. But,\nnever discouraged, he sought on till he found, and what he found he\ngave as a heritage to all men for ever, that the way might be easier for\nthem than it had been for him.\n\nNothing is more clear than this: that to the Buddhist his teacher was\nbut a man like himself, erring and weak, who made himself perfect, and\nthat even as his teacher has done, so, too, may he if he do but observe\nthe everlasting laws of life which the Buddha has shown to the world.\nThese laws are as immutable as Newton's laws, and come, like his, from\nbeyond our ken.\n\nAnd this, too, is another point wherein the parallel with Newton will\nhelp us: that just as when Newton discovered gravitation he was obliged\nto stop, for his knowledge of that did not lead him at once to the\nknowledge of the infinite, so when he had attained the laws of\nrighteousness, Gaudama the Buddha also stopped, because here his\nstanding-ground failed. It is not true, that which has been imputed to\nthe Buddha by those who have never tried to understand him--that he\ndenied some power greater than ourselves; that because he never tried to\ndefine the indefinite, to confine the infinite within the corners of a\nphrase, therefore his creed was materialistic. We do not say of Newton\nthat he was an atheist because when he taught us of gravity he did not\ngo further and define to us in equations Him who made gravity; and as we\nunderstand more of the Buddha, as we search into life and consider his\nteaching, as we try to think as he thought, and to see as he saw, we\nunderstand that he stopped as Newton stopped, because he had come to the\nend of all that he could see, not because he declared that he knew all\nthings, and that beyond his knowledge there was nothing.\n\nNo teacher more full of reverence, more humble than Gaudama the Buddha\never lived to be an example to us through all time. He tells us of what\nhe knows; of what he knows not he is silent. Of the laws that he can\nsee, the great sequences of life to death, of evil to sorrow, of\ngoodness to happiness, he tells in burning words. Of the beginning and\nthe end of the world, of the intentions and the ways of the great\nUnknown, he tells us nothing at all. He is no prophet, as we understand\nthe word, but a man; and all that is divine in him beyond what there is\nin us is that he hated the darkness and sought the light, sought and was\nnot dismayed, and at last he found.\n\nAnd yet nothing could be further from the truth than to call the Buddha\na philosopher and Buddhism a philosophy. Whatever he was, he was no\nphilosopher. Although he knew not any god, although he rested his claims\nto be heard upon the fact that his teachings were clear and\nunderstandable, that you were not required to believe, but only to open\nyour eyes and see, and 'his delight was in the contemplation of\nunclouded truth,' yet he was far from a philosopher. His was not an\nappeal to our reason, to our power of putting two and two together and\nmaking five of them; his teachings were no curious designs woven with\nwords, the counters of his thought. He appealed to the heart, not to the\nbrain; to our feelings, not to our power of arranging these feelings. He\ndrew men to him by love and reverence, and held them so for ever. Love\nand charity and compassion, endless compassion, are the foundations of\nhis teachings; and his followers believe in him because they have seen\nin him the just man made perfect, and because he has shown to them the\nway in which all men may become even as he is.\n\nHe was a prince in a little kingdom in the Northeast of India, the son\nof King Thudoodana and his wife Maia. He was strong, we are told, and\nhandsome, famous in athletic exercises, and his father looked forward to\nthe time when he should be grown a great man, and a leader of armies.\nHis father's ambition for him was that he should be a great conqueror,\nthat he should lead his troops against the neighbouring kings and\novercome them, and in time make for himself a wide-stretching empire.\nIndia was in those days, as in many later ones, split up into little\nkingdoms, divided from each other by no natural boundary, overlooked by\nno sovereign power, and always at war. And the king, as fathers are, was\nfull of dreams that this son of his should subdue all India to himself,\nand be the glory of his dynasty, and the founder of a great race.\n\nEverything seemed to fall in with the desire of the king. The prince\ngrew up strong and valiant, skilled in action, wise in counsel, so that\nall his people were proud of him. Everything fell in with the desire of\nthe king except the prince himself, for instead of being anxious to\nfight, to conquer other countries, to be a great leader of armies, his\ndesires led him away from all this. Even as a boy he was meditative and\ngiven to religious musings, and as he grew up he became more and more\nconfirmed in his wish to know of sacred things, more and more an\ninquirer into the mysteries of life.\n\nHe was taught all the faith of those days, a faith so old that we do not\nknow whence it came. He was brought up to believe that life is immortal,\nthat no life can ever utterly die. He was taught that all life is one;\nthat there is not one life of the beasts and one life of men, but that\nall life was one glorious unity, one great essence coming from the\nUnknown. Man is not a thing apart from this world, but of it. As man's\nbody is but the body of beasts, refined and glorified, so the soul of\nman is but a higher stage of the soul of beasts. Life is a great ladder.\nAt the bottom are the lower forms of animals, and some way up is man;\nbut all are climbing upwards for ever, and sometimes, alas! falling\nback. Existence is for each man a great struggle, punctuated with many\ndeaths; and each death ends one period but to allow another to begin, to\ngive us a new chance of working up and gaining heaven.\n\nHe was taught that this ladder is very high, that its top is very far\naway, above us, out of our sight, and that perfection and happiness lie\nup there, and that we must strive to reach them. The greatest man, even\nthe greatest king, was farther below perfection than an animal was below\nhim. We are very near the beasts, but very far from heaven. So he was\ntaught to remember that even as a very great prince he was but a weak\nand erring soul, and that unless he lived well, and did honest deeds,\nand was a true man, instead of rising he might fall.\n\nThis teaching appealed to the prince far more than all the urging of his\nfather and of the courtiers that he should strive to become a great\nconqueror. It entered into his very soul, and his continual thought was\nhow he was to be a better man, how he was to use this life of his so\nthat he should gain and not lose, and where he was to find happiness.\n\nAll the pomp and glory of the palace, all its luxury and ease, appealed\nto him very little. Even in his early youth he found but little pleasure\nin it, and he listened more to those who spoke of holiness than to those\nwho spoke of war. He desired, we are told, to become a hermit, to cast\noff from him his state and dignity, and to put on the yellow garments of\na mendicant, and beg his bread wandering up and down upon the world,\nseeking for peace.\n\nThis disposition of the prince grieved his parents very much. That their\nson, who was so full of promise, so brave and so strong, so wise and so\nmuch beloved by everyone, should become a mendicant clad in unclean\ngarments, begging his daily food from house to house, seemed to them a\nhorrible thing. It could never be permitted that a prince should\ndisgrace himself in this way. Every effort must be taken to eradicate\nsuch ideas; after all, it was but the melancholy of youth, and it would\npass. So stringent orders were given to distract his mind in every way\nfrom solemn thoughts, to attempt by a continued round of pleasure and\nluxury to attract him to more worldly things. And when he was eighteen\nhe was married to his cousin Yathodaya, in the hope that in marriage and\npaternity he might forget his desire to be a hermit, might feel that\nlove was better than wisdom. And if Yathodaya had been other than she\nwas--who can tell?--perhaps after all the king might have succeeded; but\nit was not to be so. For to Yathodaya, too, life was a very solemn\nthing, not to be thrown away in laughter and frivolity, but to be used\nas a great gift worthy of all care. To the prince in his trouble there\ncame a kindred soul, and though from the palace all the teachers of\nreligion, all who would influence the prince against the desires of his\nfather, were banished, yet Yathodaya more than made up to him for all he\nhad lost. For nearly ten years they lived together there such a life as\nprinces led in those days in the East, not, perhaps, so very different\nfrom what they lead now.\n\nAnd all that time the prince had been gradually making up his mind,\nslowly becoming sure that life held something better than he had yet\nfound, hardening his determination that he must leave all that he had\nand go out into the world looking for peace. Despite all the efforts of\nthe king his father, despite the guards and his young men companions,\ndespite the beauty of the dancing-girls, the mysteries of life came home\nto him, and he was afraid. It is a beautiful story told in quaint\nimagery how it was that the knowledge of sickness and of death came to\nhim, a horror stalking amid the glories of his garden. He learnt, and he\nunderstood, that he too would grow old, would fall sick, would die. And\nbeyond death? There was the fear, and no one could allay it. Daily he\ngrew more and more discontented with his life in the palace, more and\nmore averse to the pleasures that were around him. Deeper and deeper he\nsaw through the laughing surface to the depths that lay beneath.\nSilently all these thoughts ripened in his mind, till at last the change\ncame. We are told that the end came suddenly, the resolve was taken in a\nmoment. The lake fills and fills until at length it overflows, and in a\nnight the dam is broken, and the pent-up waters are leaping far towards\nthe sea.\n\nAs the prince returned from his last drive in his garden with resolve\nfirmly established in his heart, there came to him the news that his\nwife had borne to him a son. Wife and child, his cup of desire was now\nfull. But his resolve was unshaken. 'See, here is another tie, alas! a\nnew and stronger tie that I must break,' he said; but he never wavered.\n\nThat night the prince left the palace. Silently in the dead of night he\nleft all the luxury about him, and went out secretly with only his\nfaithful servant, Maung San, to saddle for him his horse and lead him\nforth. Only before he left he looked in cautiously to see Yathodaya, the\nyoung wife and mother. She was lying asleep, with one hand upon the face\nof her firstborn, and the prince was afraid to go further. 'To see him,'\nhe said, 'I must remove the hand of his mother, and she may awake; and\nif she awake, how shall I depart? I will go, then, without seeing my\nson. Later on, when all these passions are faded from my heart, when I\nam sure of myself, perhaps then I shall be able to see him. But now I\nmust go.'\n\nSo he went forth very silently and very sadly, and leapt upon his\nhorse--the great white horse that would not neigh for fear of waking the\nsleeping guards--and the prince and his faithful noble Maung San went\nout into the night. He was only twenty-eight when he fled from all his\nworld, and what he sought was this: 'Deliverance for men from the misery\nof life, and the knowledge of the truth that will lead them unto the\nGreat Peace.'\n\nThis is the great renunciation.\n\nI have often talked about this with the monks and others, often heard\nthem speak about this great renunciation, of this parting of the prince\nand his wife.\n\n'You see,' said a monk once to me, 'he was not yet the Buddha, he had\nnot seen the light, only he was desirous to look for it. He was just a\nprince, just a man like any other man, and he was very fond of his wife.\nIt is very hard to resist a woman if she loves you and cries, and if you\nlove her. So he was afraid.'\n\nAnd when I said that Yathodaya was also religious, and had helped him in\nhis thoughts, and that surely she would not have stopped him, the monk\nshook his head.\n\n'Women are not like that,' he said.\n\nAnd a woman said to me once: 'Surely she was very much to be pitied\nbecause her husband went away from her and her baby. Do you think that\nwhen she talked religion with her husband she ever thought that it would\ncause him to leave her and go away for ever? If she had thought that,\nshe would never have done as she did. A woman would never help anything\nto sever her husband from her, not even religion. And when after ten\nyears a baby had come to her! Surely she was very much to be pitied.'\nThis woman made me understand that the highest religion of a woman is\nthe true love of her husband, of her children; and what is it to her if\nshe gain the whole world, but lose that which she would have?\n\nAll the story of Yathodaya and her dealings with her husband is full of\nthe deepest pathos, full of passionate protest against her loss, even in\norder that her husband and all the world should gain. She would have\nheld him, if she could, against the world, and deemed that she did well.\nAnd so, though it is probable that it was a great deal owing to\nYathodaya's help, to her sympathy, to her support in all his\ndifficulties, that Gaudama came to his final resolve to leave the world\nand seek for the truth, yet she acted unwittingly of what would be the\nend.\n\n'She did not know,' said the woman. 'She helped her husband, but she did\nnot know to what. And when she was ill, when she was giving birth to her\nbaby, then her husband left her. Surely she was very much to be pitied.'\n\nAnd so Yathodaya, the wife of the Prince Gaudama, who became the Buddha,\nis held in high honour, in great esteem, by all Buddhists. By the men,\nbecause she helped her husband to his resolve to seek for the truth,\nbecause she had been his great stay and help when everyone was against\nhim, because if there had been no Yathodaya there had been perchance no\nBuddha. And by the women--I need not say why she is honoured by all\nwomen. If ever there was a story that appealed to woman's heart, surely\nit is this: her love, her abandonment, her courage, her submission when\nthey met again in after-years, her protest against being sacrificed upon\nthe altar of her husband's religion. Truly, it is all of the very\nessence of humanity. Whenever the story of the Buddha comes to be\nwritten, then will be written also the story of the life of Yathodaya\nhis wife. If one is full of wisdom and teaching, the other is full of\nsuffering and teaching also. I cannot write it here. I have so much to\nsay on other matters that there is no room. But some day it will be\nwritten, I trust, this old message to a new world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nHE WHO FOUND THE LIGHT--II\n\n     'He who never spake but good and wise words, he who was the light\n     of the world, has found too soon the Peace.'--_Lament on the death\n     of the Buddha._\n\n\nThe prince rode forth into the night, and as he went, even in the first\nflush of his resolve, temptation came to him. As the night closed behind\nhe remembered all he was leaving: he remembered his father and his\nmother; his heart was full of his wife and child.\n\n'Return!' said the devil to him. 'What seek you here? Return, and be a\ngood son, a good husband, a good father. Remember all that you are\nleaving to pursue vain thoughts. You, a great man--you might be a great\nking, as your father wishes--a mighty conqueror of nations. The night is\nvery dark, and the world before you is very empty.'\n\nThe prince's heart was full of bitterness at the thought of those he\nloved, of all that he was losing. Yet he never wavered. He would not\neven turn to look his last on the great white city lying in a silver\ndream behind him. He set his face upon his way, trampling beneath him\nevery worldly consideration, despising a power that was but vanity and\nillusion; he went on into the dark.\n\nPresently he came to a river, the boundary of his father's kingdom, and\nhere he stopped. Then the prince turned to Maung San, and told him that\nhe must return. Beyond the river lay for the prince the life of a holy\nman, who needed neither servant nor horse, and Maung San must return.\nAll his prayers were in vain; his supplications that he might be allowed\nto follow his master as a disciple; his protestations of eternal faith.\nNo, he must return; so Maung San went back with the horse, and the\nprince was alone.\n\nAs he waited there alone by the river, alone in the dark waiting for the\ndawn ere he could cross, alone with his own fears and thoughts, doubt\ncame to him again. He doubted if he had done right, whether he should\never find the light, whether, indeed, there was any light to find, and\nin his doubt and distress he asked for a sign. He desired that it might\nbe shown to him whether all his efforts would be in vain or not, whether\nhe should ever win in the struggle that was before him. We are told that\nthe sign came to him, and he knew that, whatever happened, in the end\nall would go well, and he would find that which he sought.\n\nSo he crossed the river out of his father's kingdom into a strange\ncountry, and he put on the garment of a recluse, and lived as they did.\n\nHe sought his bread as they did, going from house to house for the\nbroken victuals, which he collected in a bowl, retiring to a quiet spot\nto eat.\n\nThe first time he collected this strange meal and attempted to eat, his\nvery soul rose against the distastefulness of the mess. He who had been\na prince, and accustomed to the very best of everything, could not at\nfirst bring himself to eat such fare, and the struggle was bitter. But\nin the end here, too, he conquered. 'Was I not aware,' he said, with\nbitter indignation at his weakness, 'that when I became a recluse I must\neat such food as this? Now is the time to trample upon the appetite of\nnature.' He took up his bowl, and ate with a good appetite, and the\nfight had never to be fought again.\n\nSo in the fashion of those days he became a seeker after truth. Men,\nthen, when they desired to find holiness, to seek for that which is\nbetter than the things of this world, had to begin their search by an\nutter repudiation of all that which the world holds good. The rich and\nworldly wore handsome garments, they would wear rags; those of the world\nwere careful of their personal appearance, they would despise it; those\nof the world were cleanly, the hermits were filthy; those of the world\nwere decent, and had a care for outward observances, and so hermits had\nno care for either decency or modesty. The world was evil, surely, and\ntherefore all that the world held good was surely evil too. Wisdom was\nto be sought in the very opposites of the conventions of men.\n\nThe prince took on him their garments, and went to them to learn from\nall that which they had learnt. He went to all the wisest hermits of the\nland, to those renowned for their wisdom and holiness; and this is what\nthey taught him, this is all the light they gave to him who came to them\nfor light. 'There is,' they said, 'the soul and the body of man, and\nthey are enemies; therefore, to punish the soul, you must destroy and\npunish the body. All that the body holds good is evil to the soul.' So\nthey purified their souls by ceremonies and forms, by torture and\nstarvation, by nakedness and contempt of decency, by nameless\nabominations. And the young prince studied all their teaching, and\nessayed to follow their example, and he found it was all of no use. Here\nhe could find no way to happiness, no raising of the soul to higher\nplanes, but, rather, a degradation towards the beasts. For\nself-punishment is just as much a submission to the flesh as luxury and\nself-indulgence. How can you forget the body, and turn the soul to\nbetter thoughts, if you are for ever torturing that body, and thereby\nkeeping it in memory? You can keep your lusts just as easily before your\neyes by useless punishment as by indulgence. And how can you turn your\nmind to meditation and thought if your body is in suffering? So the\nprince soon saw that here was not the way he wanted. His soul revolted\nfrom them and their austerities, and he left them. As he fathomed the\nemptiness of his counsellors of the palace, so he fathomed the emptiness\nof the teachers of the cave and monastery. If the powerful and wealthy\nwere ignorant, wisdom was not to be found among the poor and feeble, and\nhe was as far from it as when he left the palace. Yet he did not\ndespair. Truth was somewhere, he was sure; it must be found if only it\nbe looked for with patience and sincerity, and he would find it. Surely\nthere was a greater wisdom than mere contempt of wealth and comfort,\nsurely a greater happiness than could be found in self-torture and\nhysteria. And so, as he could find no one to teach him, he went out into\nthe forest to look for truth there. In the great forest where no one\ncomes, where the deer feed and the tiger creeps, he would seek what man\ncould not give him. They would know, those great trees that had seen a\nthousand rains, and outlived thirty generations of men; they would know,\nthose streams that flashed from the far snow summits; surely the forest\nand the hills, the dawn and the night, would have something to tell him\nof the secrets of the world. Nature can never lie, and here, far away\nfrom the homes of men, he would learn the knowledge that men could not\ngive him. With a body purified by abstinence, with a heart attuned by\nsolitude, he would listen as the winds talked to the mountains in the\ndusk, and understand the beckoning of the stars. And so, as many others\ndid then and afterwards, he left mankind and went to Nature for help.\nFor six years he lived so in the fastnesses of the hills.\n\nWe are told but very little of those six years, only that he was often\nvery lonely, often very sad with the remembrance of all whom he had\nleft. 'Think not,' he said many years later to a favourite\ndisciple--'think not that I, though the Buddha, have not felt all this\neven as any other of you. Was I not alone when I was seeking for wisdom\nin the wilderness? And yet what could I have gained by wailing and\nlamentation either for myself or for others? Would it have brought to me\nany solace from my loneliness? Would it have been any help to those I\nhad left?'\n\nWe are told that his fame as a solitary, as a a man who communed with\nNature, and subdued his own lower feelings, was so great that all men\nknew of it. His fame was as a 'bell hung in the canopy of the skies,'\nthat all nations heard; and many disciples came to him. But despite all\nhis fame among men, he himself knew that he had not yet come to the\ntruth. Even the great soul of Nature had failed to tell him what he\ndesired. The truth was as far off as ever, so he thought, and to those\nthat came to him for wisdom he had nothing to teach. So, at the end of\nsix years, despairing of finding that which he sought, he entered upon a\ngreat fast, and he pushed it to such an extreme that at length he\nfainted from sheer exhaustion and starvation.\n\nWhen he came to himself he recognised that he had failed again. No\nlight had shone upon his dimmed eyes, no revelation had come to him in\nhis senselessness. All was as before, and the truth--the truth, where\nwas that?\n\nFor this man was no inspired teacher. He had no one to show him the way\nhe should go; he was tried with failure, with failure after failure. He\nlearnt as other men learn, through suffering and mistake. Here was his\nthird failure. The rich had failed him, and the poor; even the voices of\nthe hills had not told him of what he would know; the radiant finger of\ndawn had pointed to him no way to happiness. Life was just as miserable,\nas empty, as meaningless, as before.\n\nAll that he had done was in vain, and he must try again, must seek out\nsome new way, if he were ever to find that which he sought.\n\nHe rose from where he lay, and took his bowl in his hands and went to\nthe nearest village, and ate heartily and drank, and his strength came\nback to him, and the beauty he had lost returned.\n\nAnd then came the final blow: his disciples left him in scorn.\n\n'Behold,' they said to each other, 'he has lived through six years of\nmortification and suffering in vain. See, now, he goes forth and eats\nfood, and assuredly he who does this will never attain wisdom. Our\nmaster's search is not after wisdom, but worldly things; we must look\nelsewhere for the guidance that we seek.'\n\nThey departed, leaving him to bear his disappointment alone, and they\nwent into the solitude far away, to continue in their own way and pursue\ntheir search after their own method. He who was to be the Buddha had\nfailed, and was alone.\n\nTo the followers of the Buddha, to those of our brothers who are trying\nto follow his teachings and emulate his example to attain a like reward,\ncan there be any greater help than this: amid the failure and despair of\nour own lives to remember that the teacher failed, even as we are doing?\nIf we find the way dark and weary, if our footsteps fail, if we wander\nin wrong paths, did not he do the same? And if we find we have to bear\nsufferings alone, so had he; if we find no one who can comfort us,\nneither did he; as we know in our hearts that we stand alone, to fight\nwith our own hands, so did he. He is no model of perfection whom it is\nhopeless for us to imitate, but a man like ourselves, who failed and\nfought, and failed and fought again, and won. And so, if we fail, we\nneed not despair. Did not our teacher fail? What he has done, we can do,\nfor he has told us so. Let us be up again and be of good heart, and we,\ntoo, shall win in the end, even as he did. The reward will come in its\nown good time if we strive and faint not.\n\nSurely this comes home to all of our hearts--this failure of him who\nfound the light. That he should have won--ah, well, that is beautiful;\nbut that he should have failed--and failed, that is what comes home to\nus, because we too have failed many times. Can you wonder that his\nfollowers love him? Can you wonder that his teaching has come home to\nthem as never did teaching elsewhere? I do not think it is hard to see\nwhy: it is simply because he was a man as we are. Had he been other than\na man, had truth been revealed to him from the beginning, had he never\nfought, had he never failed, do you think that he would have held the\nlove of men as he does? I fear, had it been so, this people would have\nlacked a soul.\n\nHis disciples left him, and he was alone. He went away to a great grove\nof trees near by--those beautiful groves of mango and palm and fig that\nare the delight of the heart in that land of burning, flooding\nsunshine--and there he slept, defeated, discredited, and abandoned; and\nthere the truth came to him.\n\nThere is a story of how a young wife, coming to offer her little\nofferings to the spirit of the great fig-tree, saw him, and took him for\nthe spirit, so beautiful was his face as he rose.\n\nThere are spirits in all the great trees, in all the rivers, in all the\nhills--very beautiful, very peaceful, loving calm and rest.\n\nThe woman thought he was the spirit come down to accept her offering,\nand she gave it to him--the cup of curdled milk--in fear and trembling,\nand he took it. The woman went away again full of hope and joy, and the\nprince remained in the grove. He lived there for forty-nine days, we\nare told, under the great fig-tree by the river. And the fig-tree has\nbecome sacred for ever because he sat there and because there he found\nthe truth. We are told of it all in wonderful trope and imagery--of his\nlast fight over sin, and of his victory.\n\nThere the truth came to him at last out of his own heart. He had sought\nfor it in men and in Nature, and found it not, and, lo! it was in his\nown heart.\n\nWhen his eyes were cleared of imaginings, and his body purified by\ntemperance, then at last he saw, down in his own soul, what he had\nsought the world over for. Every man carries it there. It is never dead,\nbut lives with our life, this light that we seek. We darken it, and turn\nour faces from it to follow strange lights, to pursue vague glimmers in\nthe dark, and there, all the time, is the light in each man's own heart.\nDarkened it may be, crusted over with our ignorance and sin, but never\ndead, never dead, always burning brightly for us when we care to seek\nfor it.\n\nThe truth for each man is in his own soul. And so it came at last, and\nhe who saw the light went forth and preached it to all the world. He\nlived a long life, a life full of wonderful teaching, of still more\nmarvellous example. All the world loved him.\n\nHe saw again Yathodaya, she who had been his wife; he saw his son. Now,\nwhen passion was dead in him, he could do these things. And Yathodaya\nwas full of despair, for if all the world had gained a teacher, she had\nlost a husband. So it will be for ever. This is the difference between\nmen and women. She became a nun, poor soul! and her son--his son--became\none of his disciples.\n\nI do not think it is necessary for me to tell much more of his life.\nMuch has been told already by Professor Max Mueller and other scholars,\nwho have spared no pains to come to the truth of that life. I do not\nwish to say more. So far, I have written to emphasize the view which, I\nthink, the Burmese take of the Buddha, and how he came to his wisdom,\nhow he loved, and how he died.\n\nHe died at a great age, full of years and love. The story of his death\nis most beautiful. There is nowhere anything more wonderful than how, at\nthe end of that long good life, he entered into the Great Peace for\nwhich he had prepared his soul.\n\n'Ananda,' he said to his weeping disciple, 'do not be too much concerned\nwith what shall remain of me when I have entered into the Peace, but be\nrather anxious to practise the works that lead to perfection; put on\nthose inward dispositions that will enable you also to reach the\neverlasting rest.'\n\nAnd again:\n\n'When I shall have left life and am no more seen by you, do not believe\nthat I am no longer with you. You have the laws that I have found, you\nhave my teachings still, and in them I shall be ever beside you. Do\nnot, therefore, think that I have left you alone for ever.'\n\nAnd before he died:\n\n'Remember,' he said, 'that life and death are one. Never forget this.\nFor this purpose have I gathered you together; for life and death are\none.'\n\nAnd so 'the great and glorious teacher,' he who never spoke but good and\nwise words, he who has been the light of the world, entered into the\nPeace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE WAY TO THE GREAT PEACE\n\n     'Come to Me: I teach a doctrine which leads to deliverance from all\n     the miseries of life.'--_Saying of the Buddha._\n\n\nTo understand the teaching of Buddhism, it must be remembered that to\nthe Buddhist, as to the Brahmin, man's soul is eternal.\n\nIn other faiths and other philosophies this is not so. There the soul is\nimmortal; it cannot die, but each man's soul appeared newly on his\nbirth. Its beginning is very recent.\n\nTo the Buddhist the beginning as well as the end is out of our ken.\nWhere we came from we cannot know, but certainly the soul that appears\nin each newborn babe is not a new thing. It has come from everlasting,\nand the present life is merely a scene in the endless drama of\nexistence. A man's identity, the sum of good and of evil tendencies,\nwhich is his soul, never dies, but endures for ever. Each body is but a\ncase wherein the soul is enshrined for the time.\n\nAnd the state of that soul, whether good predominate in it or evil, is\npurely dependent on that soul's thoughts and actions in time past.\n\nMen are not born by chance wise or foolish, righteous or wicked, strong\nor feeble. A man's condition in life is the absolute result of an\neternal law that as a man sows so shall he reap; that as he reaps so has\nhe sown.\n\nTherefore, if you find a man's desires naturally given towards evil, it\nis because he has in his past lives educated himself to evil. And if he\nis righteous and charitable, long-suffering and full of sympathy, it is\nbecause in his past existence he has cultivated these virtues; he has\nfollowed goodness, and it has become a habit of his soul.\n\nThus is every man his own maker. He has no one to blame for his\nimperfections but himself, no one to thank for his virtues but himself.\nWithin the unchangeable laws of righteousness each man is absolutely the\ncreator of himself and of his own destiny. It has lain, and it lies,\nwithin each man's power to determine what manner of man he shall be.\nNay, it not only lies within his power to do so, but a man _must_\nactually mould himself. There is no other way in which he can develop.\n\nEvery man has had an equal chance. If matters are somewhat unequal now,\nthere is no one to blame but himself. It is within his power to retrieve\nit, not perhaps in this short life, but in the next, maybe, or the next.\n\nMan is not made perfect all of a sudden, but takes time to grow, like\nall valuable things. You might as well expect to raise a teak-tree in\nyour garden in a night as to make a righteous man in a day. And thus not\nonly is a man the sum of his passions, his acts and his thoughts, in\npast time, but he is in his daily life determining his future--what sort\nof man he shall be. Every act, every thought, has its effect, not only\nupon the outer world, but upon the inner soul. If you follow after evil,\nit becomes in time a habit of your soul. If you follow after good, every\ngood act is a beautifying touch to your own soul.\n\nMan is as he has made himself; man will be as he makes himself. This is\na very simple theory, surely. It is not at all difficult to understand\nthe Buddhist standpoint in the matter. It is merely the theory of\nevolution applied to the soul, with this difference: that in its later\nstages it has become a deliberate and a conscious evolution, and not an\nunconscious one.\n\nAnd the deduction from this is also simple. It is true, says Buddhism,\nthat every man is the architect of himself, that he can make himself as\nhe chooses. Now, what every man desires is happiness. As a man can form\nhimself as he will, it is within his power to make himself happy, if he\nonly knows how. Let us therefore carefully consider what happiness is,\nthat we may attain it; what misery is, that we may avoid it.\n\nIt is a commonplace of many religions, and of many philosophies--nay,\nit is the actual base upon which they have been built, that this is an\nevil world.\n\nJudaism, indeed, thought that the world was really a capital place, and\nthat it was worth while doing well in order to enjoy it. But most other\nfaiths thought very differently. Indeed, the very meaning of most\nreligions and philosophies has been that they should be refuges from the\nwickedness and unhappiness of the world. According to them the world has\nbeen a very weary world, full of wickedness and of deceit, of war and\nstrife, of untruth and of hate, of all sorts of evil.\n\nThe world has been wicked, and man has been unhappy in it.\n\n'I do not know that any theory has usually been propounded to explain\nwhy this is so. It has been accepted as a fact that man is unhappy,\naccepted, I think, by most faiths over the world. Indeed, it is the\nbelief that has been, one thinks, the cause of faiths. Had the world\nbeen happy, surely there had been no need of religions. In a summer sea,\nwhere is the need of havens? It is a generally-accepted fact, accepted,\nas I have said, without explanation. But the Buddhist has not been\ncontented to leave it so. He has thought that it is in the right\nexplanation of this cardinal fact that lies all truth. Life suffers from\na disease called misery. He would be free from it. Let us, then, says\nthe Buddhist, first discover the cause of this misery, and so only can\nwe understand how to cure it.' It is this explanation which is really\nthe distinguishing tenet of Buddhism, which differentiates it from all\nother faiths and all philosophies.\n\nThe reason, says Buddhism, why men are unhappy is that they are alive.\nLife and sorrow are inseparable--nay, they are one and the same thing.\nThe mere fact of being alive is a misery. When you have clear eyes and\ndiscern the truth, you shall see this without a doubt, says the\nBuddhist. For consider, What man has ever sat down and said: 'Now am I\nin perfect happiness; just as I now am would I like to remain for ever\nand for ever without change'? No man has ever done so. What men desire\nis change. They weary of the present, and desire the future; and when\nthe future comes they find it no better than the past. Happiness lies in\nyesterday and in to-morrow, but never in to-day. In youth we look\nforward, in age we look back. What is change but the death of the\npresent? Life is change, and change is death, so says the Buddhist. Men\nshudder at and fear death, and yet death and life are the same\nthing--inseparable, indistinguishable, and one with sorrow. We men who\ndesire life are as men athirst and drinking of the sea. Every drop we\ndrink of the poisoned sea of existence urges on men surely to greater\nthirst still. Yet we drink on blindly, and say that we are athirst.\n\nThis is the explanation of Buddhism. The world is unhappy because it is\nalive, because it does not see that what it should strive for is not\nlife, not change and hurry and discontent and death, but peace--the\nGreat Peace. There is the goal to which a man should strive.\n\nSee now how different it is from the Christian theory. In Christianity\nthere are two lives--this and the next. The present is evil, because it\nis under the empire of the devil--the world, the flesh, and the devil.\nThe next will be beautiful, because it is under the reign of God, and\nthe devil cannot intrude.\n\nBut Buddhism acknowledges only one life--an existence that has come from\nthe forever, that may extend to the forever. If this life is evil, then\nis all life evil, and happiness can live but in peace, in surcease from\nthe troubles of this weary world. If, then, a man desire happiness--and\nin all faiths that is the desired end--he must strive to attain peace.\nThis, again, is not a difficult idea to understand. It seems to me so\nsimple that, when once it has been listened to, it may be understood by\na child. I do not say believed and followed, but understood. Belief is a\ndifferent matter. 'The law is deep; it is difficult to know and to\nbelieve it. It is very sublime, and can be comprehended only by means of\nearnest meditation,' for Buddhism is not a religion of children, but of\nmen.\n\nThis is the doctrine that has caused Buddhism to be called pessimism.\nTaught, as we have been taught, to believe that life and death are\nantagonistic, that life in the world to come is beautiful, that death\nis a horror, it seems to us terrible to think that it is indeed our very\nlife itself that is the evil to be eradicated, and that life and death\nare the same. But to those that have seen the truth, and believed it, it\nis not terrible, but beautiful. When you have cleansed your eyes from\nthe falseness of the flesh, and come face to face with truth, it is\nbeautiful. 'The law is sweet, filling the heart with joy.'\n\nTo the Buddhist, then, the end to be obtained is the Great Peace, the\nmighty deliverance from all sorrow. He must strive after peace; on his\nown efforts depends success or failure.\n\nWhen the end and the agent have been determined, there remains but to\ndiscover the means, the road whereby the end may be reached. How shall a\nman so think and so act that he shall come at length unto the Great\nPeace? And the answer of Buddhism to this question is here: good deeds\nand good thoughts--these are the gate wherein alone you may enter into\nthe way. Be honourable and just, be kind and compassionate, truth-loving\nand averse to wrong--this is the beginning of the road that leads unto\nhappiness. Do good to others, not in order that they may do good to you,\nbut because, by doing so, you do good to your own soul. Give alms, and\nbe charitable, for these things are necessary to a man. Above all, learn\nlove and sympathy. Try to feel as others feel, try to understand them,\ntry to sympathize with them, and love will come. Surely he was a\nBuddhist at heart who wrote: 'Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.'\nThere is no balm to a man's heart like love, not only the love others\nfeel towards him, but that he feels towards others. Be in love with all\nthings, not only with your fellows, but with the whole world, with every\ncreature that walks the earth, with the birds in the air, with the\ninsects in the grass. All life is akin to man. Man's life is not apart\nfrom other life, but of it, and if a man would make his heart perfect,\nhe must learn to sympathize with and understand all the great world\nabout him. But he must always remember that he himself comes first. To\nmake others just, you must yourself be just; to make others happy, you\nmust yourself be happy first; to be loved, you must first love. Consider\nyour own soul, to make it lovely. Such is the teaching of Buddha. But if\nthis were all, then would Buddhism be but a repetition of the\ncommonplaces of all religions, of all philosophies. In this teaching of\nrighteousness is nothing new. Many teachers have taught it, and all have\nlearnt in the end that righteousness is no sure road to happiness, to\npeace. Buddhism goes farther than this. Honour and righteousness, truth\nand love, are, it says, very beautiful things, but are only the\nbeginning of the way; they are but the gate. In themselves they will\nnever bring a man home to the Great Peace. Herein lies no salvation from\nthe troubles of the world. Far more is required of a man than to be\nrighteous. Holiness alone is not the gate to happiness, and all that\nhave tried have found it so. It alone will not give man surcease from\npain. When a man has so purified his heart by love, has so weaned\nhimself from wickedness by good acts and deeds, then he shall have eyes\nto see the further way that he should go. Then shall appear to him the\ntruth that it is indeed life that is the evil to be avoided; that life\nis sorrow, and that the man who would escape evil and sorrow must escape\nfrom life itself--not in death. The death of this life is but the\ncommencement of another, just as, if you dam a stream in one direction,\nit will burst forth in another. To take one's life now is to condemn\none's self to longer and more miserable life hereafter. The end of\nmisery lies in the Great Peace. A man must estrange himself from the\nworld, which is sorrow. Hating struggle and fight, he will learn to love\npeace, and to so discipline his soul that the world shall appear to him\nclearly to be the unrest which it is. Then, when his heart is fixed upon\nthe Great Peace, shall his soul come to it at last. Weary of the earth,\nit shall come into the haven where there are no more storms, where there\nis no more struggle, but where reigns unutterable peace. It is not\ndeath, but the Great Peace.\n\n\n     'Ever pure, and mirror bright and even,\n     Life among the immortals glides away;\n     Moons are waning, generations changing,\n     Their celestial life flows everlasting,\n     Changeless 'midst a ruined world's decay.'\n\n\nThis is Nirvana, the end to which we must all strive, the only end that\nthere can be to the trouble of the world. Each man must realize this for\nhimself, each man will do so surely in time, and all will come into the\nhaven of rest. Surely this is a simple faith, the only belief that the\nworld has known that is free from mystery and dogma, from ceremony and\npriestcraft; and to know that it is a beautiful faith you have but to\nlook at its believers and be sure. If a people be contented in their\nfaith, if they love it and exalt it, and are never ashamed of it, and if\nit exalts them and makes them happy, what greater testimony can you have\nthan that?\n\nIt will seem that indeed I have compressed the teaching of this faith\ninto too small a space--this faith about which so many books have been\nwritten, so much discussion has taken place. But I do not think it is\nso. I cannot see that even in this short chapter I have left out\nanything that is important in Buddhism. It is such a simple faith that\nall may be said in a very few words. It would be, of course, possible to\nrefine on and gloze over certain points of the teaching. Where would be\nthe use? The real proof of the faith is in the results, in the deeds\nthat men do in its name. Discussion will not alter these one way or\nanother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nWAR--I\n\n     'Love each other and live in peace.'\n                         _Saying of the Buddha._\n\n\nThis is the Buddhist belief as I have understood it, and I have written\nso far in order to explain what follows. For my object is not to explain\nwhat the Buddha taught, but what the Burmese believe; and this is not\nquite the same thing, though in nearly every action of their life the\ninfluence of Buddhism is visible more or less strongly. Therefore I\npropose to describe shortly the ideas of the Burmese people upon the\nmain objects of life; and to show how much or how little Buddhism has\naffected their conceptions. I will begin with courage.\n\nI think it will be evident that there is no quality upon which the\nsuccess of a nation so much depends as upon its courage. No nation can\nrise to a high place without being brave; it cannot maintain its\nindependence even; it cannot push forward upon any path of life without\ncourage. Nations that are cowards must fail.\n\nI am aware that the courage of a nation depends, as do its other\nqualities, upon many things: its situation with regard to other nations,\nits climate, its food, its occupations. It is a great subject that I\ncannot go into. I wish to take all such things as I find them, and to\ndiscuss only the effect of the religion upon the courage of the people,\nupon its fighting capabilities. That religion may have a very serious\neffect one way or the other, no one can doubt. I went through the war of\nannexation, from 1885 to 1889, and from it I will draw my examples.\n\nWhen we declared war in Upper Burma, and the column advanced up the\nriver in November, 1885, there was hardly any opposition. A little fight\nthere was at the frontier fort of Minhla, but beyond that nothing. The\nriver that might have been blocked was open; the earthworks had no\ncannon, the men no guns. Such a collapse was never seen. There was no\norganization, no material, no money. The men wanted officers to command\nand teach them; the officers wanted authority and ability to command.\nThe people looked to their rulers to repel the invaders; the rulers\nlooked to the people. There was no common intelligence or will between\nthem. Everything was wanting; nothing was as it should be. And so\nMandalay fell without a shot, and King Thibaw, the young, incapable,\nkind-hearted king, was taken into captivity.\n\nThat was the end of the first act, brief and bloodless. For a time the\npeople were stupefied. They could not understand what had happened;\nthey could not guess what was going to happen. They expected that the\nEnglish would soon retire, and that then their own government would\nreorganize itself. Meanwhile they kept quiet.\n\nIt is curious to think how peaceful the country really was from\nNovember, 1885, till June, 1886. Then the trouble came. The people had\nby that time, even in the wild forest villages, begun to understand that\nwe wanted to stay, that we did not intend going away unless forced to.\nThey felt that it was of no further use looking to Mandalay for help. We\nhad begun, too, to consider about collecting taxes, to interfere with\nthe simple machinery of local affairs, to show that we meant to govern.\nAnd as the people did not desire to be governed--certainly not by\nforeigners, at least--they began to organize resistance. They looked to\ntheir local leaders for help, and, as too often these local governors\nwere not very capable men, they sought, as all people have done, the\nassistance of such men of war as they could find--brigands, and\nfreelances, and the like--and put themselves under their orders. The\nwhole country rose, from Bhamo to Minhla, from the Shan Plateau to the\nChin Mountains. All Upper Burma was in a passion of insurrection, a very\nfury of rebellion against the usurping foreigners. Our authority was\nconfined to the range of our guns. Our forts were attacked, our convoys\nambushed, our steamers fired into on the rivers. There was no safety for\nan Englishman or a native of India, save within the lines of our\ntroops, and it was soon felt that these troops were far too few to cope\nwith the danger. To overthrow King Thibaw was easy, to subdue the people\na very different thing.\n\nIt is almost impossible to describe the state of Upper Burma in 1886. It\nmust be remembered that the central government was never very strong--in\nfact, that beyond collecting a certain amount of taxes, and appointing\ngovernors to the different provinces, it hardly made itself felt outside\nMandalay and the large river towns. The people to a great extent\ngoverned themselves. They had a very good system of village government,\nand managed nearly all their local affairs. But beyond the presence of a\ngovernor, there was but little to attach them to the central government.\nThere was, and is, absolutely no aristocracy of any kind at all. The\nBurmese are a community of equals, in a sense that has probably never\nbeen known elsewhere. All their institutions are the very opposite to\nfeudalism. Now, feudalism was instituted to be useful in war. The\nBurmese customs were instituted that men should live in comfort and ease\nduring peace; they were useless in war. So the natural leaders of a\npeople, as in other countries, were absent. There were no local great\nmen; the governors were men appointed from time to time from Mandalay,\nand usually knew nothing of their charges; there were no rich men, no\nlarge land-holders--not one. There still remained, however, one\ninstitution that other nations have made useful in war, namely, the\norganization of religion. For Buddhism is fairly well\norganized--certainly much better than ever the government was. It has\nits heads of monasteries, its Gaing-dauks, its Gaing-oks, and finally\nthe Thathanabaing, the head of the Burmese Buddhism. The overthrow of\nKing Thibaw had not injured any of this. This was an organization in\ntouch with the whole people, revered and honoured by every man and woman\nand child in the country. In this terrible scene of anarchy and\nconfusion, in this death peril of their nation, what were the monks\ndoing?\n\nWe know what religion can do. We have seen how it can preach war and\nresistance, and can organize that war and resistance. We know what ten\nthousand priests preaching in ten thousand hamlets can effect in making\na people almost unconquerable, in directing their armies, in\nstrengthening their determination. We remember La Vendee, we remember\nour Puritans, and we have had recent experience in the Soudan. We know\nwhat Christianity has done again and again; what Judaism, what\nMahommedanism, what many kinds of paganism, have done.\n\nTo those coming to Burma in those days, fresh from the teachings of\nEurope, remembering recent events in history, ignorant of what Buddhism\nmeans, there was nothing more surprising than the fact that in this war\nreligion had no place. They rode about and saw the country full of\nmonasteries; they saw the monasteries full of monks, whom they called\npriests; they saw that the people were intensely attached to their\nreligion; they had daily evidence that Buddhism was an abiding faith in\nthe hearts of the people. And yet, for all the assistance it was to them\nin the war, the Burmese might have had no faith at all.\n\nAnd the explanation is, that the teachings of the Buddha forbid war. All\nkilling is wrong, all war is hateful; nothing is more terrible than this\ndestroying of your fellow-man. There is absolutely no getting free of\nthis commandment. The teaching of the Buddha is that you must strive to\nmake your own soul perfect. This is the first of all things, and comes\nbefore any other consideration. Be pure and kind-hearted, full of\ncharity and compassion, and so you may do good to others. These are the\nvows the Buddhist monks make, these are the vows they keep; and so it\nhappened that all that great organization was useless to the patriot\nfighter, was worse than useless, for it was against him. The whole\nspectacle of Burma in those days, with the country seething with strife,\nand the monks going about their business calmly as ever, begging their\nbread from door to door, preaching of peace, not war, of kindness, not\nhatred, of pity, not revenge, was to most foreigners quite inexplicable.\nThey could not understand it. I remember a friend of mine with whom I\nwent through many experiences speaking of it with scorn. He was a\ncavalry officer, 'the model of a light cavalry officer'; he had with him\na squadron of his regiment, and we were trying to subdue a very troubled\npart of the country.\n\nWe were camping in a monastery, as we frequently did--a monastery on a\nhill near a high golden pagoda. The country all round was under the sway\nof a brigand leader, and sorely the villagers suffered at his hands now\nthat he had leapt into unexpected power. The villages were half\nabandoned, the fields untilled, the people full of unrest; but the\nmonasteries were as full of monks as ever; the gongs rang, as they ever\ndid, their message through the quiet evening air; the little boys were\ntaught there just the same; the trees were watered and the gardens swept\nas if there were no change at all--as if the king were still on his\ngolden throne, and the English had never come; as if war had never burst\nupon them. And to us, after the very different scenes we saw now and\nthen, saw and acted in, these monks and their monasteries were difficult\nto understand. The religion of the Buddha thus professed was strange.\n\n'What is the use,' said my friend, 'of this religion that we see so many\nsigns of? Suppose these men had been Jews or Hindus or Mussulmans, it\nwould have been a very different business, this war. These yellow-robed\nmonks, instead of sitting in their monasteries, would have pervaded the\ncountry, preaching against us and organizing. No one organizes better\nthan an ecclesiastic. We should have had them leading their men into\naction with sacred banners, and promising them heaven hereafter when\nthey died. They would have made Ghazis of them. Any one of these is a\nreligion worth having. But what is the use of Buddhism? What do these\nmonks do? I never see them in a fight, never hear that they are doing\nanything to organize the people. It is, perhaps, as well for us that\nthey do not. But what is the use of Buddhism?'\n\nSo, or somewhat like this, spoke my friend, speaking as a soldier. Each\nof us speaks from our own standpoint. He was a brilliant soldier, and a\nreligion was to him a sword, a thing to fight with. That was one of the\nfirst uses of a religion. He knew nothing of Buddhism; he cared to know\nnothing, beyond whether it would fight. If so, it was a good religion in\nits way. If not, then not.\n\nReligion meant to him something that would help you in your trouble,\nthat would be a stay and a comfort, a sword to your enemies and a prop\nfor yourself. Though he was himself an invader, he felt that the Burmans\ndid no wrong in resisting him. They fought for their homes, as he would\nhave fought; and their religion, if of any value, should assist them. It\nshould urge them to battle, and promise them peace and happiness if\ndying in a good cause. His faith would do this for him. What was\nBuddhism doing? What help did it give to its believers in their\nextremity? It gave none. Think of the peasant lying there in the ghostly\ndim-lit fields waiting to attack us at the dawn. Where was his help? He\nthought, perhaps, of his king deported, his village invaded, his friends\nkilled, himself reduced to the subject of a far-off queen. He would\nfight--yes, even though his faith told him not. There was no help there.\nHis was no faith to strengthen his arm, to straighten his aim, to be his\nshield in the hour of danger.\n\nIf he died, if in the strife of the morning's fight he were to be\nkilled, if a bullet were to still his heart, or a lance to pierce his\nchest, there was no hope for him of the glory of heaven. No, but every\nfear of hell, for he was sinning against the laws of\nrighteousness--'Thou shalt take no life.' There is no exception to that\nat all, not even for a patriot fighting for his country. 'Thou shalt not\ntake the life even of him who is the enemy of thy king and nation.' He\ncould count on no help in breaking the everlasting laws that the Buddha\nhas revealed to us. If he went to his monks, they could but say: 'See\nthe law, the unchangeable law that man is subject to. There is no good\nthing but peace, no sin like strife and war.' That is what the followers\nof the great teacher would tell the peasant yearning for help to strike\na blow upon the invaders. The law is the same for all. There is not one\nlaw for you and another for the foreigner; there is not one law to-day\nand another to-morrow. Truth is for ever and for ever. It cannot change\neven to help you in your extremity. Think of the English soldier and the\nBurmese peasant. Can there be anywhere a greater contrast than this?\n\nTruly this is not a creed for a soldier, not a creed for a fighting-man\nof any kind, for what the soldier wants is a personal god who will\nalways be on his side, always share his opinions, always support him\nagainst everyone else. But a law that points out unalterably that right\nis always right, and wrong always wrong, that nothing can alter one into\nthe other, nothing can ever make killing righteous and violence\nhonourable, that is no creed for a soldier. And Buddhism has ever done\nthis. It never bent to popular opinion, never made itself a tool in the\nhands of worldly passion. It could not. You might as well say to\ngravity, 'I want to lift this stone; please don't act on it for a time,'\nas expect Buddhism to assist you to make war. Buddhism is the\nunalterable law of righteousness, and cannot ally itself with evil,\ncannot ever be persuaded that under any circumstances evil can be good.\n\nThe Burmese peasant had to fight his own fight in 1885 alone. His king\nwas gone, his government broken up, he had no leaders. He had no god to\nstand beside him when he fired at the foreign invaders; and when he lay\na-dying, with a bullet in his throat, he had no one to open to him the\ngates of heaven.\n\nYet he fought--with every possible discouragement he fought, and\nsometimes he fought well. It has been thrown against him as a reproach\nthat he did not do better. Those who have said this have never thought,\nnever counted up the odds against him, never taken into consideration\nhow often he did well.\n\nHere was a people--a very poor people of peasants--with no leaders,\nabsolutely none; no aristocracy of any kind, no cohesion, no fighting\nreligion. They had for their leaders outlaws and desperadoes, and for\narms old flint-lock guns and soft iron swords. Could anything be\nexpected from this except what actually did happen? And yet they often\ndid well, their natural courage overcoming their bad weapons, their\npassionate desire of freedom giving them the necessary impulse.\n\nIn 1886, as I have said, all Burma was up. Even in the lower country,\nwhich we held for so long, insurrection was spreading fast, and troops\nand military police were being poured in from India.\n\nThere is above Mandalay a large trading village--a small town\nalmost--called Shemmaga. It is the river port for a large trade in salt\nfrom the inner country, and it was important to hold it. The village lay\nalong the river bank, and about the middle of it, some two hundred yards\nfrom the river, rises a small hill. Thus the village was a triangle,\nwith the base on the river, and the hill as apex. On the hill were some\nmonasteries of teak, from which the monks had been ejected, and three\nhundred Ghurkas were in garrison there. A strong fence ran from the hill\nto the river like two arms, and there were three gates, one just by the\nhill, and one on each end of the river face.\n\nBehind Shemmaga the country was under the rule of a robber chief called\nMaung Yaing, who could raise from among the peasants some two hundred or\nthree hundred men, armed mostly with flint-locks. He had been in the\nking's time a brigand with a small number of followers, who defied or\neluded the local authorities, and lived free in quarters among the most\ndistant villages. Like many a robber chief in our country and elsewhere,\nhe was liked rather than hated by the people, for his brutalities were\nconfined to either strangers or personal enemies, and he was open-handed\nand generous. We look upon things now with different eyes to what we did\ntwo or three hundred years ago, but I dare say Maung Yaing was neither\nbetter nor worse than many a hero of ours long ago. He was a fairly good\nfighter, and had a little experience fighting the king's troops; and so\nit was very natural, when the machinery of government fell like a house\nof cards, and some leaders were wanted, that the young men should crowd\nto him, and put themselves under his orders. He had usually with him\nforty or fifty men, but he could, as I have said, raise five or six\ntimes as many for any particular service, and keep them together for a\nfew days. He very soon discovered that he and his men were absolutely no\nmatch for our troops. In two or three attempts that he made to oppose\nthe troops he was signally worsted, so he was obliged to change his\ntactics. He decided to boycott the enemy. No Burman was to accept\nservice under him, to give him information or supplies, to be his guide,\nor to assist him in any way. This rule Maung Yaing made generally known,\nand he announced his intention of enforcing it with rigour. He did so.\nThere was a head man of a village near Shemmaga whom he executed because\nhe had acted as guide to a body of troops, and he cut off all supplies\nfrom the interior, lying on the roads, and stopping all men from\nentering Shemmaga. He further issued a notice that the inhabitants of\nShemmaga itself should leave the town. They could not move the garrison,\ntherefore the people must move themselves. No assistance must be given\nto the enemy. The villagers of Shemmaga, mostly small traders in salt\nand rice, were naturally averse to leaving. This trade was their only\nmeans of livelihood, the houses their only homes, and they did not like\nthe idea of going out into the unknown country behind. Moreover, the\nexaction by Maung Yaing of money and supplies for his men fell most\nheavily on the wealthier men, and on the whole they were not sorry to\nhave the English garrison in the town, so that they could trade in\npeace. Some few left, but most did not, and though they collected\nmoney, and sent it to Maung Yaing, they at the same time told the\nEnglish officer in command of Maung Yaing's threats, and begged that\ngreat care should be taken of the town, for Maung Yaing was very angry.\nWhen he found he could not cause the abandonment of the town, he sent in\nword to say that he would burn it. Not three hundred foreigners, nor\nthree thousand, should protect these lazy, unpatriotic folk from his\nvengeance. He gave them till the new moon of a certain month, and if the\ntown were not evacuated by that time he declared that he would destroy\nit. He would burn it down, and kill certain men whom he mentioned, who\nhad been the principal assistants of the foreigners. This warning was\nquite public, and came to the ears of the English officer almost at\nonce. When he heard it he laughed.\n\nHe had three hundred men, and the rebels had three hundred. His were all\nmagnificently trained and drilled troops, men made for war; the Burmans\nwere peasants, unarmed, untrained. He was sure he could defeat three\nthousand of them, or ten times that number, with his little force, and\nso, of course, he could if he met them in the open; no one knew that\nbetter, by bitter experience, than Maung Yaing. The villagers, too,\nknew, but nevertheless they were stricken with fear, for Maung Yaing was\na man of his word. He was as good as his threat.\n\nOne night, at midnight, the face of the fort where the Ghurkas lived on\nthe hill was suddenly attacked. Out of the brushwood near by a heavy\nfire was opened upon the breastwork, and there was shouting and beating\nof gongs. So all the Ghurkas turned out in a hurry, and ran to man the\nbreastwork, and the return fire became hot and heavy. In a moment, as it\nseemed, the attackers were in the village. They had burst in the north\ngate by the river face, killed the Burmese guard on it, and streamed in.\nThey lit torches from a fire they found burning, and in a moment the\nvillage was on fire. Looking down from the hill, you could see the\nvillage rushing into flame, and in the lurid light men and women and\nchildren running about wildly. There were shouts and screams and shots.\nNo one who has never heard it, never seen it, can know what a village is\nlike when the enemy has burst in at night. Everyone is mad with hate,\nwith despair, with terror. They run to and fro, seeking to kill, seeking\nto escape being killed. It is impossible to tell one from another. The\nbravest man is dismayed. And the noise is like a great moan coming out\nof the night, pierced with sharp cries. It rises and falls, like the\ndeath-cry of a dying giant. It is the most terrible sound in the world.\nIt makes the heart stop.\n\nTo the Ghurkas this sight and sound came all of a sudden, as they were\ndefending what they took to be a determined attack on their own\nposition. The village was lost ere they knew it was attacked. And two\nsteamers full of troops, anchored off the town, saw it, too. They were\non their way up country, and had halted there that night, anchored in\nthe stream. They were close by, but could not fire, for there was no\ntelling friend from foe.\n\nBefore the relief party of Ghurkas could come swarming down the hill,\nonly two hundred yards, before the boats could land the eager troops\nfrom the steamers, the rebels were gone. They went through the village\nand out of the south gate. They had fulfilled their threat and destroyed\nthe town. They had killed the men they had declared they would kill. The\nfiring died away from the fort side, and the enemy were gone, no one\ncould tell whither, into the night.\n\nSuch a scene of desolation as that village was next day! It was all\ndestroyed--every house. All the food was gone, all furniture, all\nclothes, everything, and here and there was a corpse in among the\nblackened cinders. The whole countryside was terror-stricken at this\nfailure to defend those who had depended on us.\n\nI do not think this was a particularly gallant act, but it was a very\nable one. It was certainly war. It taught us a very severe lesson--more\nsevere than a personal reverse would have been. It struck terror in the\ncountryside. The memory of it hampered us for very long; even now they\noften talk of it. It was a brutal act--that of a brigand, not a soldier.\n\nBut there was no want of courage. If these men, inferior in number, in\narms, in everything, could do this under the lead of a robber chief,\nwhat would they not have done if well led, if well trained, if well\narmed?\n\nOf desperate encounters between our troops and the insurgents I could\ntell many a story. I have myself seen such fights. They nearly always\nended in our favour--how could it be otherwise?\n\nThere was Ta Te, who occupied a pagoda enclosure with some eighty men,\nand was attacked by our mounted infantry. There was a long fight in that\nhot afternoon, and very soon the insurgents' ammunition began to fail,\nand the pagoda was stormed. Many men were killed, and Ta Te, when his\nmen were nearly all dead, and his ammunition quite expended, climbed up\nthe pagoda wall, and twisted off pieces of the cement and threw them at\nthe troops. He would not surrender--not he--and he was killed. There\nwere many like him. The whole war was little affairs of this kind--a\nhundred, three hundred, of our men, and much the same, or a little more,\nof theirs. They only once or twice raised a force of two thousand men.\nNothing can speak more forcibly of their want of organization than this.\nThe whole country was pervaded by bands of fifty or a hundred men, very\nrarely amounting to more than two hundred, never, I think, to five\nhundred, armed men, and no two bands ever acted in concert.\n\nIt is probable that most of the best men of the country were against\nus. It is certain, I think, that of those who openly joined us and\naccompanied us in our expedition, very, very few were other than men who\nhad some private grudge to avenge, or some purpose to gain, by opposing\ntheir own people. Of such as these you cannot expect very much. And yet\nthere were exceptions--men who showed up all the more brilliantly\nbecause they were exceptions--men whom I shall always honour. There were\ntwo I remember best of all. They are both dead now.\n\nOne was the eldest son of the hereditary governor of a part of the\ncountry called Kawlin. It is in the north-west of Upper Burma, and\nbordered on a semi-independent state called Wuntho. In the troubles that\noccurred after the deposition of King Thibaw, the Prince of Wuntho\nthought that he would be able to make for himself an independent\nkingdom, and he began by annexing Kawlin. So the governor had to flee,\nand with him his sons, and naturally enough they joined our columns when\nwe advanced in that direction, hoping to be replaced. They were\nreplaced, the father as governor under the direction of an English\nmagistrate, and the son as his assistant. They were only kept there by\nour troops, and upheld in authority by our power against Wuntho. But\nthey were desired by many of their own people, and so, perhaps, they\ncould hardly be called traitors, as many of those who joined us were.\nThe father was a useless old man, but his son, he of whom I speak, was\nbrave and honourable, good tempered and courteous, beyond most men whom\nI have met. It was well known that he was the real power behind his\nfather. It was he who assisted us in an attempt to quell the\ninsurrections and catch the raiders that troubled our peace, and many a\ntime they tried to kill him, many a time to murder him as he slept.\n\nThere was a large gang of insurgents who came across the Mu River one\nday, and robbed one of his villages, so a squadron of cavalry was sent\nin pursuit. We travelled fast and long, but we could not catch the\nraiders. We crossed the Mu into unknown country, following their tracks,\nand at last, being without guides, we camped that night in a little\nmonastery in the forest. At midnight we were attacked. A road ran\nthrough our camp, and there was a picket at each end of the road, and\nsentries were doubled.\n\nIt was just after midnight that the first shot was fired. We were all\nasleep when a sudden volley was poured into the south picket, killing\none sentry and wounding another. There was no time to dress, and we ran\ndown the steps as we were (in sleeping dresses), to find the men rapidly\nfalling in, and the horses kicking at their pickets. It was pitch-dark.\nThe monastery was on a little cleared space, and there was forest all\nround that looked very black. Just as we came to the foot of the steps\nan outbreak of firing and shouts came from the north, and the Burmese\ntried to rush our camp from there; then they tried to rush it again from\nthe south, but all their attempts were baffled by the steadiness of the\npickets and the reinforcements that were running up. So the Burmese,\nfinding the surprise ineffectual, and that the camp could not be taken,\nspread themselves about in the forest in vantage places, and fired into\nthe camp. Nothing could be seen except the dazzling flashes from their\nguns as they fired here and there, and the darkness was all the darker\nfor those flashes of flame, that cut it like swords. It was very cold. I\nhad left my blanket in the monastery, and no one was allowed to ascend,\nbecause there, of all places, the bullets flew thickest, crushing\nthrough the mat walls, and going into the teak posts with a thud. There\nwas nothing we could do. The men, placed in due order about the camp,\nfired back at the flashes of the enemy's guns. That was all they had to\nfire at. It was not much guide. The officers went from picket to picket\nencouraging the men, but I had no duty; when fighting began my work as a\ncivilian was at a standstill. I sat and shivered with cold under the\nmonastery, and wished for the dawn. In a pause of the firing you could\nhear the followers hammering the pegs that held the foot-ropes of the\nhorses. Then the dead and wounded were brought and put near me, and in\nthe dense dark the doctor tried to find out what injuries the men had\nreceived, and dress them as well as he could. No light dare be lit. The\nnight seemed interminable. There were no stars, for a dense mist hung\nabove the trees. After an hour or two the firing slackened a little, and\npresently, with great caution, a little lamp, carefully shrouded with a\nblanket, was lit. A sudden burst of shots that came splintering into the\nposts beside us caused the lamp to be hurriedly put out; but presently\nit was lit again, and with infinite caution one man was dressed. At last\na little very faint silver dawn came gleaming through the tree-tops--the\nmost beautiful sight I ever saw--and the firing stopped. The dawn came\nquickly down, and very soon we were able once more to see what we were\nabout, and count our losses.\n\nThen we moved out. We had hardly any hope of catching the enemy, we who\nwere in a strange country, who were mounted on horses, and had a heavy\ntransport, and they who knew every stream and ravine, and had every\nvillager for a spy. So we moved back a march into a more open country,\nwhere we hoped for better news, and two days later that news came.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nWAR--II\n\n     'Never in the world does hatred cease by hatred. Hatred ceases by\n     love.'--_Dammapada._\n\n\nWe were encamped at a little monastery in some fields by a village, with\na river in front. Up in the monastery there was but room for the\nofficers, so small was it, and the men were camped beneath it in little\nshelters. It was two o'clock, and very hot, and we were just about to\ntake tiffin, when news came that a party of armed men had been seen\npassing a little north of us. It was supposed they were bound to a\nvillage known to be a very bad one--Laka--and that they would camp\nthere. So 'boot and saddle' rang from the trumpets, and in a few moments\nlater we were off, fifty lances. Just as we started, his old Hindostani\nChristian servant came up to my friend, the commandant, and gave him a\nlittle paper. 'Put it in your pocket, sahib,' he said. The commandant\nhad no time to talk, no time even to look at what it could be. He just\ncrammed it into his breast-pocket, and we rode on. The governor's son\nwas our guide, and he led us through winding lanes into a pass in the\nlow hills. The road was very narrow, and the heavy forest came down to\nour elbows as we passed. Now and again we crossed the stream, which had\nbut little water in it, and the path would skirt its banks for awhile.\nIt was beautiful country, but we had no time to notice it then, for we\nwere in a hurry, and whenever the road would allow we trotted and\ncantered. After five or six miles of this we turned a spur of the hills,\nand came out into a little grass-glade on the banks of the stream, and\nat the far end of this was the village where we expected to find those\nwhom we sought. They saw us first, having a look-out on a high tree by\nthe edge of the forest; and as our advanced guard came trotting into the\nopen, he fired. The shot echoed far up the hills like an angry shout,\nand we could see a sudden stir in the village--men running out of the\nhouses with guns and swords, and women and children running, too, poor\nthings! sick with fear. They fired at us from the village fence, but had\nno time to close the gate ere our sowars were in. Then they escaped in\nvarious ways to the forest and scrub, running like madmen across the\nlittle bit of open, and firing at us directly they reached shelter where\nthe cavalry could not come. Of course, in the open they had no chance,\nbut in the dense forest they were safe enough. The village was soon\ncleared, and then we had to return. It was no good to wait. The valley\nwas very narrow, and was commanded from both its sides, which were very\nsteep and dense with forest. Beyond the village there was only forest\nagain. We had done what we could: we had inflicted a very severe\npunishment on them; it was no good waiting, so we returned. They fired\non us nearly all the way, hiding in the thick forest, and perched on\nhigh rocks. At one place our men had to be dismounted to clear a\nbreastwork, run up to fire at us from. All the forest was full of\nvoices--voices of men and women and even children--cursing our guide.\nThey cried his name, that the spirits of the hills might remember that\nit was he who had brought desolation to their village. Figures started\nup on pinnacles of cliff, and cursed him as he rode by. Us they did not\ncurse; it was our guide.\n\nAnd so after some trouble we got back. That band never attacked us\nagain.\n\nAs we were dismounting, my friend put his hand in his pocket, and found\nthe little paper. He took it out, looked at it, and when his servant\ncame up to him he gave the paper back with a curious little smile full\nof many thoughts. 'You see,' he said, 'I am safe. No bullet has hit me.'\nAnd the servant's eyes were dim. He had been very long with his master,\nand loved him, as did all who knew him. 'It was the goodness of God,' he\nsaid--'the great goodness of God. Will not the sahib keep the paper?'\nBut the sahib would not. 'You may need it as well as I. Who can tell in\nthis war?' And he returned it.\n\nAnd the paper? It was a prayer--a prayer used by the Roman Catholic\nChurch, printed on a sheet of paper. At the top was a red cross. The\npaper was old and worn, creased at the edges; it had evidently been much\nused, much read. Such was the charm that kept the soldier from danger.\n\nThe nights were cold then, when the sun had set, and after dinner we\nused to have a camp-fire built of wood from the forest, to sit round for\na time and talk before turning in. The native officers of the cavalry\nwould come and sit with us, and one or two of the Burmans, too. We were\na very mixed assembly. I remember one night very well--I think it must\nhave been the very night after the fight at Laka, and we were all of us\nround the fire. I remember there was a half-moon bending towards the\nwest, throwing tender lights upon the hills, and turning into a silver\ngauze the light white mist that lay upon the rice-fields. Opposite to\nus, across the little river, a ridge of hill ran down into the water\nthat bent round its foot. The ridge was covered with forest, very black,\nwith silver edges on the sky-line. It was out of range for a Burmese\nflint-gun, or we should not have camped so near it. On all the other\nsides the fields stretched away till they ended in the forest that\ngloomed beyond. I was talking to the governor's son (our guide of the\nfight at Laka) of the prospects of the future, and of the intentions of\nthe Prince of Wuntho, in whose country Laka lay. I remarked to him how\nthe Burmans of Wuntho seemed to hate him, of how they had cursed him\nfrom the hills, and he admitted that it was true. 'All except my\nfriends,' he said, 'hate me. And yet what have I done? I had to help my\nfather to get back his governorship. They forget that they attacked us\nfirst.'\n\nHe went on to tell me of how every day he was threatened, of how he was\nsure they would murder him some time, because he had joined us. 'They\nare sure to kill me some time,' he said. He seemed sad and depressed,\nnot afraid.\n\nSo we talked on, and I asked him about charms. 'Are there not charms\nthat will prevent you being hurt if you are hit, and that will not allow\na sword to cut you? We hear of invulnerable men. There were the\nImmortals of the King's Guard, for instance.'\n\nAnd he said, yes, there were charms, but no one believed in them except\nthe villagers. He did not, nor did men of education. Of course, the\nignorant people believed in them. There were several sorts of charms.\nYou could be tattooed with certain mystic letters that were said to\ninsure you against being hit, and there were certain medicines you could\ndrink. There were also charms made out of stone, such as a little\ntortoise he had once seen that was said to protect its wearer. There\nwere mysterious writings on palm-leaves. There were men, he said\nvaguely, who knew how to make these things. For himself, he did not\nbelieve in them.\n\nI tried to learn from him then, and I have tried from others since,\nwhether these charms have any connection with Buddhism. I cannot find\nthat they have. They are never in the form of images of the Buddha, or\nof extracts from the sacred writings. There is not, so far as I can make\nout, any religious significance in these charms; mostly they are simply\nmysterious. I never heard that the people connect them with their\nreligion. Indeed, all forms of enchantment and of charms are most\nstrictly prohibited. One of the vows that monks take is never to have\nany dealings with charms or with the supernatural, and so Buddhism\ncannot even give such little assistance to its believers as to furnish\nthem with charms. If they have charms, it is against their faith; it is\na falling away from the purity of their teachings; it is simply the\ninnate yearning of man to the supernatural, to the mysterious. Man's\npassions are very strong, and if he must fight, he must also have a\ncharm to protect him in fight. If his religion cannot give it him, he\nmust find it elsewhere. You see that, as the teachings of the Buddha\nhave never been able to be twisted so as to permit war directly, neither\nhave they been able to assist indirectly by furnishing charms, by\nmaking the fighter bullet-proof. And I thought then of the little prayer\nand the cross that were so certain a defence against hurt.\n\nWe talked for a long time in the waning moonlight by the ruddy fire, and\nat last we broke up to go to bed. As we rose a voice called to us across\nthe water from the little promontory. In the still night every word was\nas clear as the note of a gong.\n\n'Sleep well,' it cried--'sleep well--sle-e-ep we-l-l.'\n\nWe all stood astonished--those who did not know Burmese wondering at the\nvoice; those who did, wondering at the meaning. The sentries peered\nkeenly towards the sound.\n\n'Sleep well,' the voice cried again; 'eat well. It will not be for long.\nSleep well while you may.'\n\nAnd then, after a pause, it called the governor's son's name, and\n'Traitor, traitor!' till the hills were full of sound.\n\nThe Burman turned away.\n\n'You see,' he said, 'how they hate me. What would be the good of\ncharms?'\n\nThe voice was quiet, and the camp sank into stillness, and ere long the\nmoon set, and it was quite dark.\n\nHe was a brave man, and, indeed, there are many brave men amongst the\nBurmese. They kill leopards with sticks and stones very often, and even\ntigers. They take their frail little canoes across the Irrawaddy in\nflood in a most daring way. They in no way want for physical courage,\nbut they have never made a cult of bravery; it has never been a\nnecessity to them; it has never occurred to them that it is the prime\nvirtue of a man. You will hear them confess in the calmest way, 'I was\nafraid.' We would not do that; we should be much more afraid to say it.\nAnd the teaching of Buddhism is all in favour of this. Nowhere is\ncourage--I mean aggressive courage--praised. No soldier could be a\nfervent Buddhist; no nation of Buddhists could be good soldiers; for not\nonly does Buddhism not inculcate bravery, but it does not inculcate\nobedience. Each man is the ruler of his life, but the very essence of\ngood fighting is discipline, and discipline, subjection, is unknown to\nBuddhism. Therefore the inherent courage of the Burmans could have no\nassistance from their faith in any way, but the very contrary: it fought\nagainst them.\n\nThere is no flexibility in Buddhism. It is a law, and nothing can change\nit. Laws are for ever and for ever, and there are no exceptions to them.\nThe law of the Buddha is against war--war of any kind at all--and there\ncan be no exception. And so every Burman who fought against us knew that\nhe was sinning. He did it with his eyes open; he could never imagine any\nexception in his favour. Never could he in his bivouac look at the\nstars, and imagine that any power looked down in approbation of his\ndeeds. No one fought for him. Our bayonets and lances were no keys to\nopen to him the gates of paradise; no monks could come and close his\ndying eyes with promises of rewards to come. He was sinning, and he must\nsuffer long and terribly for this breach of the laws of righteousness.\n\nIf such be the faith of the people, and if they believe their faith, it\nis a terrible handicap to them in any fight; it delivers them bound into\nthe hands of the enemy. Such is Buddhism.\n\nBut it must never be forgotten that, if this faith does not assist the\nbeliever in defence, neither does it in offence. What is so terrible as\na war of religion? There can never be a war of Buddhism.\n\nNo ravished country has ever borne witness to the prowess of the\nfollowers of the Buddha; no murdered men have poured out their blood on\ntheir hearthstones, killed in his name; no ruined women have cursed his\nname to high Heaven. He and his faith are clean of the stain of blood.\nHe was the preacher of the Great Peace, of love, of charity, of\ncompassion, and so clear is his teaching that it can never be\nmisunderstood. Wars of invasion the Burmese have waged, that is true, in\nSiam, in Assam, and in Pegu. They are but men, and men will fight. If\nthey were perfect in their faith, the race would have died out long ago.\nThey have fought, but they have never fought in the name of their faith.\nThey have never been able to prostitute its teachings to their own\nwants. Whatever the Burmans have done, they have kept their faith pure.\nWhen they have offended against the laws of the Buddha they have done so\nopenly. Their souls are guiltless of hypocrisy--for whatever that may\navail them. They have known the difference between good and evil, even\nif they have not always followed the good.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nGOVERNMENT\n\n     'Fire, water, storms, robbers, rulers--these are the five great\n     evils.'--_Burmese saying._\n\n\nIt would be difficult, I think, to imagine anything worse than the\ngovernment of Upper Burma in its later days. I mean by 'government' the\nking and his counsellors and the greater officials of the empire. The\nmanagement of foreign affairs, of the army, the suppression of greater\ncrimes, the care of the means of communication, all those duties which\nfall to the central government, were badly done, if done at all. It must\nbe remembered that there was one difficulty in the way--the absence of\nany noble or leisured class to be entrusted with the greater offices. As\nI have shown in another chapter, there was no one between the king and\nthe villager--no noble, no landowner, no wealthy or educated class at\nall. The king had to seek for his ministers among the ordinary people,\nconsequently the men who were called upon to fill great offices of state\nwere as often as not men who had no experience beyond the narrow limits\nof a village.\n\nThe breadth of view, the knowledge of other countries, of other\nthoughts, that comes to those who have wealth and leisure, were wanting\nto these ministers of the king. Natural capacity many of them had, but\nthat is not of much value until it is cultivated. You cannot learn in\nthe narrow precincts of a village the knowledge necessary to the\nmanagement of great affairs; and therefore in affairs of state this want\nof any noble or leisured class was a very serious loss to the government\nof Burma. It had great and countervailing advantages, of which I will\nspeak when I come to local government, but that it was a heavy loss as\nfar as the central government goes no one can doubt. There was none of\nthat check upon the power of the king which a powerful nobility will\ngive; there was no trained talent at his disposal. The king remained\nabsolutely supreme, with no one near his throne, and the ministers were\nmere puppets, here to-day and gone to-morrow. They lived by the breath\nof the king and court, and when they lost favour there was none to help\nthem. They had no faction behind them to uphold them against the king.\nIt can easily be understood how disastrous all this was to any form of\ngood government. All these ministers and governors were corrupt; there\nwas corruption to the core.\n\nWhen it is understood that hardly any official was paid, and that those\nwho were paid were insufficiently paid, and had unlimited power, there\nwill be no difficulty in seeing the reason. In circumstances like this\nall people would be corrupt. The only securities against bribery and\nabuse of power are adequate pay, restricted authority, and great\npublicity. None of these obtained in Burma any more than in the Europe\nof five hundred years ago, and the result was the same in both. The\ncentral government consisted of the king, who had no limit at all to his\npower, and the council of ministers, whose only check was the king. The\nexecutive and judicial were all the same: there was no appeal from one\nto the other. The only appeal from the ministers was to the king, and as\nthe king shut himself up in his palace, and was practically inaccessible\nto all but high officials, the worthlessness of this appeal is evident.\nOutside Mandalay the country was governed by _wuns_ or governors. These\nwere appointed by the king, or by the council, or by both, and they\nobtained their position by bribery. Their tenure was exceedingly\ninsecure, as any man who came and gave a bigger bribe was likely to\nobtain the former governor's dismissal and his own appointment.\nConsequently the usual tenure of office of a governor was a year. Often\nthere were half a dozen governors in a year; sometimes a man with strong\ninfluence managed to retain his position for some years. From the orders\nof the governor there was an appeal to the council. This was in some\nmatters useful, but in others not so. If a governor sentenced a man to\ndeath--all governors had power of life and death--he would be executed\nlong before an appeal could reach the council. Practically no check was\npossible by the palace over distant governors, and they did as they\nliked. Anything more disastrous and fatal to any kind of good government\nthan this it is impossible to imagine. The governors did what they\nconsidered right in their own eyes, and made as much money as they\ncould, while they could. They collected the taxes and as much more as\nthey could get; they administered the laws of Manu in civil and criminal\naffairs, except when tempted to deviate therefrom by good reasons; they\ncarried out orders received from Mandalay, when these orders fell in\nwith their own desires, or when they considered that disobedience might\nbe dangerous. It is a Burmese proverb that officials are one of the five\ngreat enemies of mankind, and there was, I think (at all events in the\nlatter days of the kingdom) good reason to remember it. And yet these\nofficials were not bad men in themselves; on the contrary, many of them\nwere men of good purpose, of natural honesty, of right principles. In a\nwell-organized system they would have done well, but the system was\nrotten to the core.\n\nIt may be asked why the Burmese people remained quiet under such a rule\nas this; why they did not rise and destroy it, raising a new one in its\nplace; how it was that such a state of corruption lasted for a year, let\nalone for many years.\n\nThe answer is this: However bad the government may have been, it had\nthe qualities of its defects. If it did not do much to help the people,\nit did little to hinder them. To a great extent it left them alone to\nmanage their own affairs in their own way. Burma in those days was like\na great untended garden, full of weeds, full of flowers too, each plant\nstriving after its own way, gradually evolving into higher forms. Now\nsometimes it seems to me to be like an old Dutch garden, with the paths\nvery straight, very clean swept, with the trees clipped into curious\nshapes of bird and beast, tortured out of all knowledge, and many of the\nflowers mown down. The Burmese government left its people alone; that\nwas one great virtue. And, again, any government, however good, however\nbad, is but a small factor in the life of a people; it comes far below\nmany other things in importance. A short rainfall for a year is more\ndisastrous than a mad king; a plague is worse than fifty grasping\ngovernors; social rottenness is incomparably more dangerous than the\nrottenest government.\n\nAnd in Burma it was only the supreme government, the high officials,\nthat were very bad. It was only the management of state affairs that was\nfeeble and corrupt; all the rest was very good. The land laws, the\nself-government, the social condition of the people, were admirable. It\nwas so good that the rotten central government made but little\ndifference to the people, and it would probably have lasted for a long\nwhile if not attacked from outside. A greater power came and upset the\ngovernment of the king, and established itself in his place; and I may\nhere say that the idea that the feebleness or wrong-doing of the Burmese\ngovernment was the cause of the downfall is a mistake. If the Burmese\ngovernment had been the best that ever existed, the annexation would\nhave happened just the same. It was a political necessity for us.\n\nThe central government of a country is, as I have said, not a matter of\nmuch importance. It has very little influence in the evolution of the\nsoul of a people. It is always a great deal worse than the people\nthemselves--a hundred years behind them in civilization, a thousand\nyears behind them in morality. Men will do in the name of government\nacts which, if performed in a private capacity, would cover them with\nshame before men, and would land them in a gaol or worse. The name of\ngovernment is a cloak for the worst passions of manhood. It is not an\ninteresting study, the government of mankind.\n\nA government is no part of the soul of the people, but is a mere\nexcrescence; and so I have but little to say about this of Burma, beyond\nthis curious fact--that religion had no part in it. Surely this is a\nvery remarkable thing, that a religion having the hold upon its\nfollowers that Buddhism has upon the Burmese has never attempted to\ngrasp the supreme authority and use it to its ends.\n\nIt is not quite an explanation to say that Buddhism is not concerned\nwith such things; that its very spirit is against the assumption of any\nworldly power and authority; that it is a negation of the value of these\nthings. Something of this sort might be said of other religions, and yet\nthey have all striven to use the temporal power.\n\nI do not know what the explanation is, unless it be that the Burmese\nbelieve their religion and other people do not. However that may be,\nthere is no doubt of the fact. Religion had nothing whatever--absolutely\nnothing in any way at all--to do with government. There are no\nexceptions. What has led people to think sometimes that there were\nexceptions is the fact that the king confirmed the Thathanabaing--the\nhead of the community of monks--after he had been elected by his\nfellow-monks. The reason of this was as follows: All ecclesiastical\nmatters--I use the word 'ecclesiastical' because I can find no\nother--were outside the jurisdiction of civil limits. By\n'ecclesiastical' I mean such matters as referred to the ownership and\nhabitation of monasteries, the building of pagodas and places of prayer,\nthe discipline of the monkhood. Such questions were decided by\necclesiastical courts under the Thathanabaing.\n\nNow, it was necessary sometimes, as may be understood, to enforce these\ndecrees, and for that reason to apply to civil power. Therefore there\nmust be a head of the monks acknowledged by the civil power as head, to\nmake such applications as might be necessary in this, and perhaps some\nother such circumstances.\n\nIt became, therefore, the custom for the king to acknowledge by order\nthe elect of the monks as Thathanabaing for all such purposes. That was\nall. The king did not appoint him at all.\n\nAny such idea as a monk interfering in the affairs of state, or\nexpressing an opinion on war or law or finance, would appear to the\nBurmese a negation of their faith. They were never led away by the idea\nthat good might come of such interference. This terrible snare has never\ncaught their feet. They hold that a man's first duty is to his own soul.\nNever think that you can do good to others at the same time as you\ninjure yourself, and the greatest good for your own heart is to learn\nthat beyond all this turmoil and fret there is the Great Peace--so great\nthat we can hardly understand it, and to reach it you must fit yourself\nfor it. The monk is he who is attempting to reach it, and he knows that\nhe cannot do that by attempting to rule his fellow-man; that is probably\nthe very worst thing he could do. And therefore the monkhood, powerful\nas they were, left all politics alone. I have never been able to hear of\na single instance in which they even expressed an opinion either as a\nbody or as individuals on any state matter.\n\nIt is true that, if a governor oppressed his people, the monks would\nremonstrate with him, or even, in the last extremity, with the king;\nthey would plead with the king for clemency to conquered peoples, to\nrebels, to criminals; their voice was always on the side of mercy. As\nfar as urging the greatest of all virtues upon governors and rulers\nalike, they may be said to have interfered with politics; but this is\nnot what is usually understood by religion interfering in things of\nstate. It seems to me we usually mean the reverse of this, for we are of\nlate beginning to regard it with horror. The Burmese have always done\nso. They would think it a denial of all religion.\n\nAnd so the only things worth noting about the government of the Burmese\nwere its exceeding badness, and its disconnection with religion. That it\nwould have been a much stronger government had it been able to enlist on\nits side all the power of the monkhood, none can doubt. It might even\nhave been a better government; of that I am not sure. But that such a\nunion would have meant the utter destruction of the religion, the\ndebasing of the very soul of the people, no one who has tried to\nunderstand that soul can doubt. And a soul is worth very many\ngovernments.\n\nBut when you left the central government, and came down to the\nmanagement of local affairs, there was a great change. You came straight\ndown from the king and governor to the village and its headman. There\nwere no lords, no squires, nor ecclesiastical power wielding authority\nover the people.\n\nEach village was to a very great extent a self-governing community\ncomposed of men free in every way. The whole country was divided into\nvillages, sometimes containing one or two hamlets at a little distance\nfrom each other--offshoots from the parent stem. The towns, too, were\ndivided into quarters, and each quarter had its headman. These men held\ntheir appointment-orders from the king as a matter of form, but they\nwere chosen by their fellow-villagers as a matter of fact. Partly this\nheadship was hereditary, not from father to son, but it might be from\nbrother to brother, and so on. It was not usually a very coveted\nappointment, for the responsibility and trouble were considerable, and\nthe pay small. It was 10 per cent. on the tax collections. And with this\nofficial as their head, the villagers managed nearly all their affairs.\nTheir taxes, for instance, they assessed and collected themselves. The\ngovernor merely informed the headman that he was to produce ten rupees\nper house from his village. The villagers then appointed assessors from\namong themselves, and decided how much each household should pay. Thus a\ncoolie might pay but four rupees, and a rice-merchant as much as fifty\nor sixty. The assessment was levied according to the means of the\nvillagers. So well was this done, that complaints against the decisions\nof the assessors were almost unknown--I might, I think, safely say were\nabsolutely unknown. The assessment was made publicly, and each man was\nheard in his own defence before being assessed. Then the money was\ncollected. If by any chance, such as death, any family could not pay,\nthe deficiency was made good by the other villagers in proportion. When\nthe money was got in it was paid to the governor.\n\nCrime such as gang-robbery, murder, and so on, had to be reported to the\ngovernor, and he arrested the criminals if he felt inclined, and knew\nwho they were, and was able to do it. Generally something was in the\nway, and it could not be done. All lesser crime was dealt with in the\nvillage itself, not only dealt with when it occurred, but to a great\nextent prevented from occurring. You see, in a village anyone knows\neveryone, and detection is usually easy. If a man became a nuisance to a\nvillage, he was expelled. I have often heard old Burmans talking about\nthis, and comparing these times with those. In those times all big\ncrimes were unpunished, and there was but little petty crime. Now all\nbig criminals are relentlessly hunted down by the police; and the\ninevitable weakening of the village system has led to a large increase\nof petty crime, and certain breaches of morality and good conduct. I\nremember talking to a man not long ago--a man who had been a headman in\nthe king's time, but was not so now. We were chatting of various\nsubjects, and he told me he had no children; they were dead.\n\n'When were you married?' I asked, just for something to say, and he\nsaid when he was thirty-two.\n\n'Isn't that rather old to be just married?' I asked. 'I thought you\nBurmans often married at eighteen and twenty. What made you wait so\nlong?'\n\nAnd he told me that in his village men were not allowed to marry till\nthey were about thirty. 'Great harm comes,' he said, 'of allowing boys\nand girls to make foolish marriages when they are too young. It was\nnever allowed in my village.'\n\n'And if a young man fell in love with a girl?' I asked.\n\n'He was told to leave her alone.'\n\n'And if he didn't?'\n\n'If he didn't, he was put in the stocks for one day or two days, and if\nthat was no good, he was banished from the village.'\n\nA monk complained to me of the bad habits of the young men in villages.\n'Could government do nothing?' he asked. They used shameful words, and\nthey would shout as they passed his monastery, and disturb the lads at\ntheir lessons and the girls at the well. They were not well-behaved. In\nthe Burmese time they would have been punished for all this--made to\ndraw so many buckets of water for the school-gardens, or do some\nroad-making, or even be put in the stocks. Now the headman was afraid to\ndo anything, for fear of the great government. It was very bad for the\nyoung men, he said.\n\nAll villages were not alike, of course, in their enforcement of good\nmanners and good morals, but, still, in every village they were enforced\nmore or less. The opinion of the people was very decided, and made\nitself felt, and the influence of the monastery without the gate was\nstrong upon the people.\n\nYet the monks never interfered with village affairs. As they abstained\nfrom state government, so they did from local government. You never\ncould imagine a Buddhist monk being a magistrate for his village, taking\nany part at all in municipal affairs. The same reasons that held them\nfrom affairs of the state held them from affairs of the commune. I need\nnot repeat them. The monastery was outside the village, and the monk\noutside the community. I do not think he was ever consulted about any\nvillage matters. I know that, though I have many and many a time asked\nmonks for their opinion to aid me in deciding little village disputes, I\nhave never got an answer out of them. 'These are not our affairs,' they\nwill answer always. 'Go to the people; they will tell you what you\nwant.' Their influence is by example and precept, by teaching the laws\nof the great teacher, by living a life blameless before men, by\npreparing their souls for rest. It is a general influence, never a\nparticular one. If anyone came to the monk for counsel, the monk would\nonly repeat to him the sacred teaching, and leave him to apply it.\n\nSo each village managed its own affairs, untroubled by squire or priest,\nvery little troubled by the state. That within their little means they\ndid it well, no one can doubt. They taxed themselves without friction,\nthey built their own monastery schools by voluntary effort, they\nmaintained a very high, a very simple, code of morals, entirely of their\nown initiative.\n\nAll this has passed, or is passing away. The king has gone to a\nbanishment far across the sea, the ministers are either banished or\npowerless for good or evil. It will never rise again, this government of\nthe king, which was so bad in all it did, and only good in what it left\nalone. It will never rise again. The people are now part of the British\nEmpire, subjects of the Queen. What may be in store for them in the far\nfuture no one can tell, only we may be sure that the past can return no\nmore. And the local government is passing away, too. It cannot exist\nwith a strong government such as ours. For good or for evil, in a few\nyears it, too, will be gone.\n\nBut, after all, these are but forms; the soul is far within. In the soul\nthere will be no change. No one can imagine even in the far future any\nmonk of the Buddha desiring temporal power or interfering in any way\nwith the government of the people. That is why I have written this\nchapter, to show how Buddhism holds itself towards the government. With\nus, we are accustomed to ecclesiastics trying to manage affairs of\nstate, or attempting to grasp the secular power. It is in accordance\nwith our ideals that they should do so. Our religious phraseology is\nfull of such terms as lord and king and ruler and servant. Buddhism\nknows nothing of any of them. In our religion we are subject to the\nauthority of deacons and priests and bishops and archbishops, and so on\nup to the Almighty Himself. But in Buddhism every man is free--free,\nsubject to the inevitable laws of righteousness. There is no hierarchy\nin Buddhism: it is a religion of absolute freedom. No one can damn you\nexcept yourself; no one can save you except yourself. Governments cannot\ndo it, and therefore it would be useless to try and capture the reins of\ngovernment, even if you did not destroy your own soul in so doing.\nBuddhism does not believe that you can save a man by force.\n\nAs Buddhism was, so it is, so it will remain. By its very nature it\nabhors all semblance of authority. It has proved that, under temptation\nsuch as no other religion has felt, and resisted; it is a religion of\neach man's own soul, not of governments and powers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nCRIME AND PUNISHMENT\n\n     'Overcome anger by kindness, evil by good.'\n                                      _Dammapada._\n\n\nNot very many years ago an officer in Rangoon lost some currency notes.\nHe had placed them upon his table overnight, and in the morning they\nwere gone. The amount was not large. It was, if I remember rightly,\nthirty rupees; but the loss annoyed him, and as all search and inquiry\nproved futile, he put the matter in the hands of the police.\n\nBefore long--the very next day--the possession of the notes was traced\nto the officer's Burman servant, who looked after his clothes and\nattended on him at table. The boy was caught in the act of trying to\nchange one of the notes. He was arrested, and he confessed. He was very\nhard up, he said, and his sister had written asking him to help her. He\ncould not do so, and he was troubling himself about the matter early\nthat morning while tidying the room, and he saw the notes on the table,\nand so he took them. It was a sudden temptation, and he fell. When the\nofficer learnt all this, he would, I think, have withdrawn from the\nprosecution and forgiven the boy; but it was too late. In our English\nlaw theft is not compoundable. A complaint of theft once made must be\nproved or disproved; the accused must be tried before a magistrate.\nThere is no alternative. So the lad--he was only a lad--was sent up\nbefore the magistrate, and he again pleaded guilty, and his master asked\nthat the punishment might be light. The boy, he said, was an honest boy,\nand had yielded to a sudden temptation. He, the master, had no desire to\npress the charge, but the reverse. He would never have come to court at\nall if he could have withdrawn from the charge. Therefore he asked that\nthe magistrate would consider all this, and be lenient.\n\nBut the magistrate did not see matters in the same light at all. He\nwould consider his judgment, and deliver it later on.\n\nWhen he came into court again and read the judgment he had prepared, he\nsaid that he was unable to treat the case leniently. There were many\nsuch cases, he said. It was becoming quite common for servants to steal\ntheir employers' things, and they generally escaped. It was a serious\nmatter, and he felt himself obliged to make an example of such as were\nconvicted, to be a warning to others. So the boy was sentenced to six\nmonths' rigorous imprisonment; and his master went home, and before\nlong had forgotten all about it.\n\nBut one day, as he was sitting in his veranda reading before breakfast,\na lad came quickly up the stairs and into the veranda, and knelt down\nbefore him. It was the servant. As soon as he was released from gaol, he\nwent straight to his old master, straight to the veranda where he was\nsure he would be sitting at that hour, and begged to be taken back again\ninto his service. He was quite pleased, and sure that his master would\nbe equally pleased, at seeing him again, and he took it almost as a\nmatter of course that he would be reinstated.\n\nBut the master doubted.\n\n'How can I take you back again?' he said. 'You have been in gaol.'\n\n'But,' said the boy, 'I did very well in gaol. I became a warder with a\ncap white on one side and yellow on the other. Let the thakin ask.'\n\nStill the officer doubted.\n\n'I cannot take you back,' he repeated. 'You stole my money, and you have\nbeen in prison. I could not have you as a servant again.'\n\n'Yes,' admitted the boy, 'I stole the thakin's money, but I have been in\nprison for it a long time--six months. Surely that is all forgotten now.\nI stole; I have been in gaol--that is the end of it.'\n\n'No,' answered the master, 'unfortunately, your having been in gaol\nonly makes matters much worse. I could forgive the theft, but the being\nin gaol--how can I forgive that?'\n\nAnd the boy could not understand.\n\n'If I have stolen, I have been in gaol for it. That is wiped out now,'\nhe said again and again, till at last he went away in sore trouble of\nmind, for he could not understand his master, nor could his master\nunderstand him.\n\nYou see, each had his own idea of what was law, and what was justice,\nand what was punishment. To the Burman all these words had one set of\nmeanings; to the Englishman they had another, a very different one. And\neach of them took his ideas from his religion. To all men the law here\non earth is but a reflection of the heavenly law; the judge is the\nrepresentative of his god. The justice of the court should be as the\njustice of heaven. Many nations have imagined their law to be\nheaven-given, to be inspired with the very breath of the Creator of the\nworld. Other nations have derived their laws elsewhere. But this is of\nlittle account, for to the one, as to the other, the laws are a\nreflection of the religion.\n\nAnd therefore on a man's religion depends all his views of law and\njustice, his understanding of the word 'punishment,' his idea of how sin\nshould be treated. And it was because of their different religions,\nbecause their religions differed so greatly on these points as to be\nalmost opposed, that the English officer and his Burman servant failed\nto understand each other.\n\nFor to the Englishman punishment was a degradation. It seemed to him far\nmore disgraceful that his servant should have been in gaol than that he\nshould have committed theft. The theft he was ready to forgive, the\npunishment he could not. Punishment to him meant revenge. It is the\nrevenge of an outraged and injured morality. The sinner had insulted the\nlaw, and therefore the law was to make him suffer. He was to be\nfrightened into not doing it again. That is the idea. He was to be\nafraid of receiving punishment. And again his punishment was to be\nuseful as a warning to others. Indeed, the magistrate had especially\nincreased it with that object in view. He was to suffer that others\nmight be saved. The idea of punishment being an atonement hardly enters\ninto our minds at all. To us it is practically a revenge. We do not\nexpect people to be the better for it. We are sure they are the worse.\nIt is a deterrent for others, not a healing process for the man himself.\nWe punish A. that B. may be afraid, and not do likewise. Our thoughts\nare bent on B., not really on A. at all. As far as he is concerned, the\nprocess is very similar to pouring boiling lead into a wound. We do not\nwish or intend to improve him, but simply and purely to make him suffer.\nAfter we have dealt with him, he is never fit again for human society.\nThat was in the officer's thought when he refused to take back his\nBurmese servant.\n\nNow see the boy's idea.\n\nPunishment is an atonement, a purifying of the soul from the stain of\nsin. That is the only justification for, and meaning of, suffering. If a\nman breaks the everlasting laws of righteousness and stains his soul\nwith the stain of sin, he must be purified, and the only method of\npurification is by suffering. Each sin is followed by suffering, lasting\njust so long as to cleanse the soul--not a moment less, or the soul\nwould not be white; not a moment more, or it would be useless and cruel.\nThat is the law of righteousness, the eternal inevitable sequence that\nleads us in the end to wisdom and peace. And as it is with the greater\nlaws, so it should, the Buddhist thinks, be with the lesser laws.\n\nIf a man steals, he should have such punishment and for such a time as\nwill wean his soul from theft, as will atone for his sin. Just so much.\nYou see, to him mercy is a falling short of what is necessary, a leaving\nof work half done, as if you were to leave a garment half washed. Excess\nof punishment is mere useless brutality. He recognizes no vicarious\npunishment. He cannot understand that A. should be damned in order to\nsave B. This does not agree with his scheme of righteousness at all. It\nseems as futile to him as the action of washing one garment twice that\nanother might be clean. Each man should atone for his own sin, _must_\natone for his own sin, in order to be freed from it. No one can help\nhim, or suffer for him. If I have a sore throat, it would be useless to\nblister you for it: that is his idea.\n\nConsider this Burman. He had committed theft. That he admitted. He was\nprepared to atone for it. The magistrate was not content with that, but\nmade him also atone for other men's sins. He was twice punished, because\nother men who escaped did ill. That was the first thing he could not\nunderstand. And then, when he had atoned both for his own sin and for\nthat of others, when he came out of prison, he was looked upon as in a\nworse state than if he had never atoned at all. If he had never been in\nprison, his master would have forgiven his theft and taken him back, but\nnow he would not. The boy was proud of having atoned in full, very full,\nmeasure for his sin; the master looked upon the punishment as\ninconceivably worse than the crime.\n\nSo the officer went about and told the story of his boy coming back, and\nexpecting to be taken on again, as a curious instance of the mysterious\nworking of the Oriental mind, as another example of the extraordinary\nway Easterns argue. 'Just to think,' said the officer, 'he was not\nashamed of having been in prison!' And the boy? Well, he probably said\nnothing, but went away and did not understand, and kept the matter to\nhimself, for they are very dumb, these people, very long-suffering,\nvery charitable. You may be sure that he never railed at the law, or\ncondemned his old master for harshness.\n\nHe would wonder why he was punished because other people had sinned and\nescaped. He could not understand that. It would not occur to him that\nsending him to herd with other criminals, that cutting him off from all\nthe gentle influences of life, from the green trees and the winds of\nheaven, from the society of women, from the example of noble men, from\nthe teachings of religion, was a curious way to render him a better man.\nHe would suppose it was intended to make him better, that he should\nleave gaol a better man than when he entered, and he would take the\nintention for the deed. Under his own king things were not much better.\nIt is true that very few men were imprisoned, fine being the usual\npunishment, but still, imprisonment there was, and so that would not\nseem to him strange; and as to the conduct of his master, he would be\ncontent to leave that unexplained. The Buddhist is content to leave many\nthings unexplained until he can see the meaning. He is not fond of\ntheories. If he does not know, he says so. 'It is beyond me,' he will\nsay; 'I do not understand.' He has no theory of an occidental mind to\nexplain acts of ours of which he cannot grasp the meaning; he would only\nnot understand.\n\nBut the pity of it--think of the pity of it all! Surely there is\nnothing more pathetic than this: that a sinner should not understand the\nwherefore of his sentence, that the justice administered to him should\nbe such as he cannot see the meaning of.\n\n\nCertain forms of crime are very rife in Burma. The villages are so\nscattered, the roads so lonely, the amount of money habitually carried\nabout so large, the people so habitually careless, the difficulty of\ndetection so great, that robbery and kindred crimes are very common; and\nit is more common in the districts of the delta, long under our rule,\nthan in the newly-annexed province in the north. Under like conditions\nthe Burman is probably no more criminal and no less criminal than other\npeople in the same state of civilization. Crime is a condition caused by\nopportunity, not by an inherent state of mind, except with the very,\nvery few, the exceptional individuals; and in Upper Burma there is, now\nthat the turmoil of the annexation is past, very little crime\ncomparatively. There is less money there, and the village system--the\ncontrol of the community over the individual--the restraining influence\nof public opinion is greater. But even during the years of trouble, the\nyears from 1885 till 1890, when, in the words of the Burmese proverb,\n'the forest was on fire and the wild-cat slapped his arm,' there were\ncertain peculiarities about the criminals that differentiated them from\nthose of Europe. You would hear of a terrible crime, a village attacked\nat night by brigands, a large robbery of property, one or two villagers\nkilled, and an old woman tortured for her treasure, and you would\npicture the perpetrators as hardened, brutal criminals, lost to all\nsense of humanity, tigers in human shape; and when you came to arrest\nthem--if by good luck you did so--you would find yourself quite\nmistaken. One, perhaps, or two of the ringleaders might be such as I\nhave described, but the others would be far different. They would be\nboys or young men led away by the idea of a frolic, allured by the\nromance of being a free-lance for a night, very sorry now, and ready to\nconfess and do all in their power to atone for their misdeeds.\n\nNothing, I think, was more striking than the universal confession of\ncriminals on their arrest. Even now, despite the spread of lawyers and\nnotions of law, in country districts accused men always confess,\nsometimes even they surrender themselves. I have known many such cases.\nHere is one that happened to myself only the other day.\n\nA man was arrested in another jurisdiction for cattle theft; he was\ntried there and sentenced to two years' rigorous imprisonment. Shortly\nafterwards it was discovered that he was suspected of being concerned in\na robbery in my jurisdiction, committed before his arrest. He was\ntherefore transferred to the gaol near my court, and I inquired into the\ncase, and committed him and four others for trial before the sessions\njudge for the robbery, which he admitted.\n\nNow, it so happened that immediately after I had passed orders in the\ncase I went out into camp, leaving the necessary warrants to be signed\nin my absence by my junior magistrate, and a mistake occurred by which\nthe committal-warrant was only made out for the four. The other man\nbeing already under sentence for two years, it was not considered\nnecessary to make out a remand-warrant for him. But, as it happened, he\nhad appealed from his former sentence and he was acquitted, so a warrant\nof release arrived at the gaol, and, in absence of any other warrant, he\nwas at once released.\n\nOf course, on the mistake being discovered a fresh warrant was issued,\nand mounted police were sent over the country in search of him, without\navail; he could not be found. But some four days afterwards, in the late\nafternoon, as I was sitting in my house, just returned from court, my\nservant told me a man wanted to see me. He was shown up into the\nveranda, and, lo! it was the very man I wanted. He had heard, he\nexplained, that I wanted him, and had come to see me. I reminded him he\nwas committed to stand his trial for dacoity, that was why I wanted him.\nHe said that he thought all that was over, as he was released; but I\nexplained to him that the release only applied to the theft case. And\nthen we walked over half a mile to court, I in front and he behind,\nacross the wide plain, and he surrendered to the guard. He was tried\nand acquitted on this charge also. Not, as the sessions judge said\nlater, that he had any doubt that my friend and the others were the\nright men, but because he considered some of the evidence\nunsatisfactory, and because the original confession was withdrawn. So he\nwas released again, and went hence a free man.\n\nBut think of him surrendering himself! He knew he had committed the\ndacoity with which he was charged: he himself had admitted it to begin\nwith, and again admitted it freely when he knew he was safe from further\ntrial. He knew he was liable to very heavy punishment, and yet he\nsurrendered because he understood that I wanted him. I confess that I do\nnot understand it at all, for this is no solitary instance. The\ncircumstances, truly, were curious, but the spirit in which the man\nacted was usual enough. I have had dacoit leaders with prices on their\nheads walk into my camp. It was a common experience with many officers.\n\nThe Burmans often act as children do. Their crimes are the violent,\nthoughtless crimes of children; they are as little depraved by crime as\nchildren are. Who are more criminal than English boys? and yet they grow\nup decent, law-abiding men. Almost the only confirmed criminals have\nbeen made so by punishment, by that punishment which some consider is\nintended to uplift them, but which never does aught but degrade them.\nInstead of cleansing the garment, it tears it, and renders it useless\nfor this life.\n\nIt is a very difficult question, this of crime and punishment. I have\nnot written all this because I have any suggestion to make to improve\nit. I have not written it because I think that the laws of Manu, which\nobtained under the Burmese kings, and their methods of punishment, were\nany improvement on ours. On the contrary, I think they were much worse.\nTheir laws and their methods of enforcing the law were those of a very\nyoung people. But, notwithstanding this, there was a spirit in their\nlaws different from and superior to ours.\n\nI have been trying to see into the soul of this people whom I love so\nwell, and nothing has struck me more than the way they regard crime and\npunishment; nothing has seemed to me more worthy of note than their\nideas of the meaning and end of punishment, of its scope and its limits.\nIt is so very different from ours. As in our religion, so in our laws:\nwe believe in mercy at one time and in vengeance at another. We believe\nin vicarious punishment and vicarious salvation; they believe in\nabsolute justice--always the same, eternal and unchangeable as the laws\nof the stars. We purposely make punishment degrading; they think it\nshould be elevating, that in its purifying power lies its sole use and\njustification. We believe in tearing a soiled garment; they think it\nought to be washed.\n\nSurely these are great differences, surely thoughts like these,\nengraven in the hearts of a young people, will lead, in the great and\nglorious future that lies before them, to a conception of justice, to a\nmethod of dealing with crime, very different from what we know\nourselves. They are now very much as we were sixteen centuries ago, when\nthe Romans ruled us. Now we are a greater people, our justice is better,\nour prisons are better, our morality is inconceivably better than\nImperial Rome ever dreamt of. And so with these people, when their time\nshall come, when they shall have grown out of childhood into manhood,\nwhen they shall have the wisdom and strength and experience to put in\nforce the convictions that are in their hearts, it seems to me that they\nwill bring out of these convictions something more wonderful than we\nto-day have dreamt of.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nHAPPINESS\n\n     'The thoughts of his heart, these are the wealth of a man.'\n                                                  _Burmese saying._\n\n\nAs I have said, there was this very remarkable fact in Burma--that when\nyou left the king, you dropped at once to the villager. There were no\nintermediate classes. There were no nobles, hereditary officers, great\nlandowners, wealthy bankers or merchants.\n\nThen there is no caste; there are no guilds of trade, or art, or\nscience. If a man discovered a method of working silver, say, he never\nhid it, but made it common property. It is very curious how absolutely\ndevoid Burma is of the exclusiveness of caste so universal in India, and\nwhich survives to a great extent in Europe. The Burman is so absolutely\nenamoured of freedom, that he cannot abide the bonds which caste\ndemands. He will not bind himself with other men for a slight temporal\nadvantage; he does not consider it worth the trouble. He prefers\nremaining free and poor to being bound and rich. Nothing is further\nfrom him than the feeling of exclusiveness. He abominates secrecy,\nmystery. His religion, his women, himself, are free; there are no dark\nplaces in his life where the light cannot come. He is ready that\neverything should be known, that all men should be his brothers.\n\nAnd so all the people are on the same level. Richer and poorer there\nare, of course, but there are no very rich; there is none so poor that\nhe cannot get plenty to eat and drink. All eat much the same food, all\ndress much alike. The amusements of all are the same, for entertainments\nare nearly always free. So the Burman does not care to be rich. It is\nnot in his nature to desire wealth, it is not in his nature to care to\nkeep it when it comes to him. Beyond a sufficiency for his daily needs\nmoney has not much value. He does not care to add field to field or coin\nto coin; the mere fact that he has money causes him no pleasure. Money\nis worth to him what it will buy. With us, when we have made a little\nmoney we keep it to be a nest-egg to make more from. Not so a Burman: he\nwill spend it. And after his own little wants are satisfied, after he\nhas bought himself a new silk, after he has given his wife a gold\nbangle, after he has called all his village together and entertained\nthem with a dramatic entertainment--sometimes even before all this--he\nwill spend the rest on charity.\n\nHe will build a pagoda to the honour of the great teacher, where men\nmay go to meditate on the great laws of existence. He will build a\nmonastery school where the village lads are taught, and where each\nvillager retires some time in his life to learn the great wisdom. He\nwill dig a well or build a bridge, or make a rest-house. And if the sum\nbe very small indeed, then he will build, perhaps, a little house--a\ntiny little house--to hold two or three jars of water for travellers to\ndrink. And he will keep the jars full of water, and put a little\ncocoanut-shell to act as cup.\n\nThe amount spent thus every year in charity is enormous. The country is\nfull of pagodas; you see them on every peak, on every ridge along the\nriver. They stand there as do the castles of the robber barons on the\nRhine, only with what another meaning! Near villages and towns there are\nclusters of them, great and small. The great pagoda in Rangoon is as\ntall as St. Paul's; I have seen many a one not three feet high--the\noffering of some poor old man to the Great Name, and everywhere there\nare monasteries. Every village has one, at least; most have two or\nthree. A large village will have many. More would be built if there was\nanyone to live in them, so anxious is each man to do something for the\nmonks. As it is, more are built than there is actual need for.\n\nAnd there are rest-houses everywhere. Far away in the dense forests by\nthe mountain-side you will find them, built in some little hollow by\nthe roadside by someone who remembered his fellow-traveller. You cannot\ngo five miles along any road without finding them. In villages they can\nbe counted by tens, in towns by fifties. There are far more than are\nrequired.\n\nIn Burmese times such roads and bridges as were made were made in the\nsame way by private charity. Nowadays, the British Government takes that\nin hand, and consequently there is probably more money for rest-house\nbuilding than is needed. As time goes on, the charity will flow into\nother lines, no doubt, in addition. They will build and endow hospitals,\nthey will devote money to higher education, they will spend money in\nmany ways, not in what we usually call charity, for that they already\ndo, nor in missions, as whatever missions they may send out will cost\nnothing. Holy men are those vowed to extreme poverty. But as their\ncivilization (_their_ civilization, not any imposed from outside)\nprogresses, they will find out new wants for the rich to supply, and\nthey will supply them. That is a mere question of material progress.\n\nThe inclination to charity is very strong. The Burmans give in charity\nfar more in proportion to their wealth than any other people. It is\nextraordinary how much they give, and you must remember that all of this\nis quite voluntary. With, I think, two or three exceptions, such as\ngilding the Shwe Dagon pagoda, collections are never made for any\npurpose. There is no committee of appeal, no organized collection. It is\nall given straight from the giver's heart. It is a very marvellous\nthing.\n\nI remember long ago, shortly after I had come to Burma, I was staying\nwith a friend in Toungoo, and I went with him to the house of a Burman\ncontractor. We had been out riding, and as we returned my friend said he\nwished to see the contractor about some business, and so we rode to his\nhouse. He came out and asked us in, and we dismounted and went up the\nstairs into the veranda, and sat down. It was a little house built of\nwood, with three rooms. Behind was a little kitchen and a stable. The\nwhole may have cost a thousand rupees. As my friend and the Burman\ntalked of their business I observed the furniture. There was very\nlittle; three or four chairs, two tables and a big box were all I could\nsee. Inside, no doubt, were a few beds and more chairs. While we sat,\nthe wife and daughter came out and gave us cheroots, and I talked to\nthem in my very limited Burmese till my friend was ready. Then we went\naway.\n\nThat contractor, so my friend told me as we went home, made probably a\nprofit of six or seven thousand rupees a year. He spent on himself about\na thousand of this; the rest went in charity. The great new monastery\nschool, with the marvellous carved facade, just to the south of the\ntown, was his, the new rest-house on the mountain road far up in the\nhills was his. He supported many monks, he gave largely to the gilding\nof the pagoda. If a theatrical company came that way, he subscribed\nfreely. Soon he thought he would retire from contracting altogether, for\nhe had enough to live on quietly for the rest of his life.\n\nHis action is no exception, but the rule. You will find that every\nwell-to-do man has built his pagoda or his monastery, and is called\n'school-builder' or 'pagoda-builder.' These are the only titles the\nBurman knows, and they always are given most scrupulously. The builder\nof a bridge, a well, or a rest-house may also receive the title of\n'well-builder,' and so on, but such titles are rarely used in common\nspeech. Even the builder of a long shed for water-jars may call himself\nafter it if he likes, but it is only big builders who receive any title\nfrom their fellows. But the satisfaction to the man himself, the\nknowledge that he has done a good deed, is much the same, I think.\n\nA Burman's wants are very few, such wants as money can supply--a little\nhouse, a sufficiency of plain food, a cotton dress for weekdays and a\nsilk one for holidays, and that is nearly all.\n\nThey are still a very young people. Many wants will come, perhaps, later\non, but just now their desires are easily satisfied.\n\nThe Burman does not care for a big house, for there are always the great\ntrees and the open spaces by the village. It is far pleasanter to sit\nout of doors than indoors. He does not care for books. He has what is\nbetter than many books--the life of his people all about him, and he has\nthe eyes to see it and the heart to understand it. He cares not to see\nwith other men's eyes, but with his own; he cares not to read other\nmen's thoughts, but to think his own, for a love of books only comes to\nhim who is shut always from the world by ill-health, by poverty, by\ncircumstance. When we are poor and miserable, we like to read of those\nwho are happier. When we are shut in towns, we love to read of the\nbeauties of the hills. When we have no love in our hearts, we like to\nread of those who have. Few men who think their own thoughts care much\nto read the thoughts of others, for a man's own thoughts are worth more\nto him than all the thoughts of all the world besides. That a man should\nthink, that is a great thing. Very, very few great readers are great\nthinkers. And he who can live his life, what cares he for reading of the\nlives of other people? To have loved once is more than to have read all\nthe poets that ever sang. So a Burman thinks. To see the moon rise on\nthe river as you float along, while the boat rocks to and fro and\nsomeone talks to you--is not that better than any tale?\n\nSo a Burman lives his life, and he asks a great deal from it. He wants\nfresh air and sunshine, and the great thoughts that come to you in the\nforest. He wants love and companionship, the voice of friends, the low\nlaugh of women, the delight of children. He wants his life to be a full\none, and he wants leisure to teach his heart to enjoy all these things;\nfor he knows that you must learn to enjoy yourself, that it does not\nalways come naturally, that to be happy and good-natured and\nopen-hearted requires an education. To learn to sympathize with your\nneighbours, to laugh with them and cry with them, you must not shut\nyourself away and work. His religion tells him that the first of all\ngifts is sympathy; it is the first step towards wisdom, and he holds it\ntrue. After that, all shall be added to you. He believes that happiness\nis the best of all things.\n\nWe think differently. We are content with cheerless days, with an\nabsence of love, of beauty, of all that is valuable to the heart, if we\ncan but put away a little money, if we can enlarge our business, if we\ncan make a bigger figure in the world. Nay, we go beyond this: we\nbelieve that work, that drudgery, is a beautiful thing in itself, that\nperpetual toil and effort is admirable.\n\nThis we do because we do not know what to do with our leisure, because\nwe do not know for what to seek, because we cannot enjoy. And so we go\nback to work, to feverish effort, because we cannot think, and see, and\nunderstand. 'Work is a means to leisure,' Aristotle told us long ago,\nand leisure, adds the Burman, is needed that you may compose your own\nsoul. Work, no doubt, is a necessity, too, but not excess of it.\n\nThe necessary thing to a man is not gold, nor position, nor power, but\nsimply his own soul. Nothing is worth anything to him compared with\nthat, for while a man lives, what is the good of all these things if he\nhave no leisure to enjoy them? And when he dies, shall they go down into\nthe void with him? No; but a man's own soul shall go with and be with\nhim for ever.\n\nA Burman's ideas of this world are dominated by his religion. His\nreligion says to him, 'Consider your own soul, that is the main thing.'\nHis religion says to him, 'The aim of every man should be happiness.'\nThese are the fundamental parts of his belief; these he learns from his\nchildhood: they are born in him. He looks at all the world by their\nlight. Later on, when he grows older, his religion says to him, 'And\nhappiness is only to be found by renouncing the whole world.' This is a\nhard teaching. This comes to him slowly, or all Buddhists would be\nmonks; but, meanwhile, if he does but remember the first two precepts,\nhe is on the right path.\n\nHe does do this. Happiness is the aim he seeks. Work and power and money\nare but the means by which he will arrive at the leisure to teach his\nown soul. First the body, then the spirit; but with us it is surely\nfirst the body, and then the body again.\n\nHe often watches us with surprise. He sees us work and work and work;\nhe sees us grow old quickly, and our minds get weary; he sees our\nsympathies grow very narrow, our ideas bent into one groove, our whole\nsouls destroyed for a little money, a little fame, a little promotion,\ntill we go home, and do not know what to do with ourselves, because we\nhave no work and no sympathy with anything; and at last we die, and take\ndown with us our souls--souls fit for nothing but to be driven for ever\nwith a goad behind and a golden fruit in front.\n\nBut do not suppose that the Burmese are idle. Such a nation of workers\nwas never known. Every man works, every woman works, every child works.\nLife is not an easy thing, but a hard, and there is a great deal of work\nto be done. There is not an idle man or woman in all Burma. The class of\nthose who live on other men's labour is unknown. I do not think the\nBurman would care for such a life, for a certain amount of work is good,\nhe knows. A little work he likes; a good deal of work he does, because\nhe is obliged often to do so to earn even the little he requires. And\nthat is the end. He is a free man, never a slave to other men, nor to\nhimself.\n\nTherefore I do not think his will ever make what we call a great nation.\nHe will never try to be a conqueror of other peoples, either with the\nsword, with trade, or with religion. He will never care to have a great\nvoice in the management of the world. He does not care to interfere with\nother people: he never believes interference can do other than harm to\nboth sides.\n\nHe will never be very rich, very powerful, very advanced in science,\nperhaps not even in art, though I am not sure about that. It may be he\nwill be very great in literature and art. But, however that may be, in\nhis own idea his will be always the greatest nation in the world,\nbecause it is the happiest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE MONKHOOD--I\n\n     'Let his life be kindness, his conduct righteousness; then in the\n     fulness of gladness he will make an end of grief.'--_Dammapada._\n\n\nDuring his lifetime, that long lifetime that remained to him after he\nhad found the light, Gaudama the Buddha gathered round him many\ndisciples. They came to learn from his lips of that truth which he had\nfound, and they remained near him to practise that life which alone can\nlead unto the Great Peace.\n\nFrom time to time, as occasion arose, the teacher laid down precepts and\nrules to assist those who desired to live as he did--precepts and rules\ndesigned to help his disciples in the right way. Thus there arose about\nhim a brotherhood of those who were striving to purify their souls, and\nlead the higher life, and that brotherhood has lasted ever since, till\nyou see in it the monkhood of to-day, for that is all that the monks\nare--a brotherhood of men who are trying to live as their great master\nlived, to purify their souls from the lust of life, to travel the road\nthat reaches unto deliverance. Only that, nothing more.\n\nThere is no idea of priesthood about it at all, for by a priest we\nunderstand one who has received from above some power, who is, as it\nwere, a representative on earth of God. Priests, to our thinking, are\nthose who have delegated to them some of that authority of which God is\nthe fountainhead. They can absolve from sin, we think; they can accept\ninto the faith; they can eject from it; they can exhort with authority;\nthey can administer the sacraments of religion; they can speed the\nparting soul to God; they can damn the parting soul to hell. A priest is\none who is clothed with much authority and holiness.\n\nBut in Buddhism there is not, there cannot be, anything of all this. The\nGod who lies far beyond our ken has delegated His authority to no one.\nHe works through everlasting laws. His will is manifested by\nunchangeable sequences. There is nothing hidden about His laws that\nrequires exposition by His agents, nor any ceremonies necessary for\nacceptance into the faith. Buddhism is a free religion. No one holds the\nkeys of a man's salvation but himself. Buddhism never dreams that anyone\ncan save or damn you but yourself, and so a Buddhist monk is as far away\nfrom our ideas of a priest as can be. Nothing could be more abhorrent to\nBuddhism than any claim of authority, of power, from above, of holiness\nacquired except by the earnest effort of a man's own soul.\n\nThese monks, who are so common all through Burma, whose monasteries are\noutside every village, who can be seen in every street in the early\nmorning begging their bread, who educate the whole youth of the country,\nare simply men who are striving after good.\n\nThis is a difficult thing for us to understand, for our minds are bent\nin another direction. A religion without a priesthood seems to us an\nimpossibility, and yet here it is so. The whole idea and thing of a\npriesthood would be repugnant to Buddhism.\n\nIt is a wonderful thing to contemplate how this brotherhood has existed\nall these many centuries, how it has always gained the respect and\nadmiration of the people, how it has always held in its hands the\neducation of the children, and yet has never aspired to sacerdotalism.\nThink of the temptation resisted here. The temptation to interfere in\ngovernment was great, the temptation to arrogate to themselves priestly\npowers is far, far greater. Yet it has been always resisted. This\nbrotherhood of monks is to-day as it was twenty-three centuries ago--a\ncommunity of men seeking for the truth.\n\nTherefore, in considering these monks, we must dismiss from our minds\nany idea of priesthood, any idea of extra human sanctity, of extra human\nauthority. We must never liken them in any way to our priests, or even\nto our friars. I use the word monk, because it is the nearest of any\nEnglish word I can find, but even that is not quite correct. I have\noften found this difficulty. I do not like to use the Burmese terms if I\ncan help it, for this reason, that strange terms and names confuse us.\nThey seem to lift us into another world--a world of people differing\nfrom us, not in habits alone, but in mind and soul. It is a dividing\npartition. It is very difficult to read a book speaking of people under\nstrange terms, and feel that they are flesh and blood with us, and\ntherefore I have, if possible, always used an English word where I can\ncome anywhere near the meaning, and in this case I think monk comes\nclosest to what I mean. Hermits they are not, for they live always in\ncommunities by villages, and they do not seclude themselves from human\nintercourse. Priests they are not, ministers they are not, clergymen\nthey are not; mendicants only half describe them, so I use the word monk\nas coming nearest to what I wish to say.\n\nThe monks, then, are those who are trying to follow the teaching of\nGaudama the Buddha, to wean themselves from the world, 'who have turned\ntheir eyes towards heaven, where is the lake in which all passions shall\nbe washed away.' They are members of a great community, who are governed\nby stringent regulations--the regulations laid down in the Wini for\nobservance by all monks. When a man enters the monkhood, he makes four\nvows--that he will be pure from lust, from desire of property, from the\ntaking of any life, from the assumption of any supernatural powers.\nConsider this last, how it disposes once and for all of any desire a\nmonk may have toward mysticism, for this is what he is taught:\n\n'No member of our community may ever arrogate to himself extraordinary\ngifts or supernatural perfection, or through vainglory give himself out\nto be a holy man; such, for instance, as to withdraw into solitary\nplaces on pretence of enjoying ecstasies like the Ariahs, and afterwards\nto presume to teach others the way to uncommon spiritual attainments.\nSooner may the lofty palm-tree that has been cut down become green\nagain, than an elect guilty of such pride be restored to his holy\nstation. Take care for yourself that you do not give way to such an\nexcess.'\n\nIs not this teaching the very reverse of that of all other peoples and\nreligions? Can you imagine the religious teachers of any other religion\nbeing warned to keep themselves free from visions? Are not visions and\ntrances, dreams and imaginations, the very proof of holiness? But here\nit is not so. These are vain things, foolish imaginations, and he who\nwould lead the pure life must put behind him all such things as mere\ndram-drinking of the soul.\n\nThis is a most wonderful thing, a religion that condemns all\nmysticisms. It stands alone here amongst all religions, pure from the\ntinsel of miracle, either past, or present, or to come. And yet this\npeople is, like all young nations, given to superstition: its young men\ndream dreams, its girls see visions. There are interpreters of dreams,\nmany of them, soothsayers of all kinds, people who will give you charms,\nand foretell events for you. Just as it was with us not long ago, the\nmystery, _what is_ beyond the world, exercises a curious fascination\nover them. Everywhere you will meet with traces of it, and I have in\nanother chapter told some of the principal phases of these. But the\nreligion has kept itself pure. No hysteric visions, no madman's dreams,\nno clever conjurer's tricks, have ever shed a tawdry glory on the\nmonkhood of the Buddha. Amid all the superstition round about them they\nhave remained pure, as they have from passion and desire. Here in the\nfar East, the very home, we think, of the unnatural and superhuman, the\nvery cradle of the mysterious and the wonderful, is a religion which\ncondemns it all, and a monkhood who follow their religion. Does not this\nout-miracle any miracle?\n\nWith other faiths it is different: they hold out to those who follow\ntheir tenets and accept their ministry that in exchange for the worldly\nthings which their followers renounce they shall receive other gifts,\nheavenly ones; they will be endued with power from above; they will have\nauthority from on high; they will become the chosen messengers of God;\nthey may even in their trances enter into His heaven, and see Him face\nto face.\n\nBuddhism has nothing of all this to offer. A man must surrender all the\nworld, with no immediate gain. There is only this: that if he struggle\nalong in the path of righteousness, he will at length attain unto the\nGreat Peace.\n\nA monk who dreamed dreams, who said that the Buddha had appeared to him\nin a vision, who announced that he was able to prophesy, would be not\nexalted, but expelled. He would be deemed silly or mad; think of\nthat--mad--for seeing visions, not holy at all! The boys would jeer at\nhim; he would be turned out of his monastery.\n\nA monk is he who observes purity and sanity of life. Hysteric dreams,\nthe childishness of the mysterious, the insanity of the miraculous, are\nno part of that.\n\nAnd so a monk has to put behind him everything that is called good in\nthis life, and govern his body and his soul in strict temperance.\n\nHe must wear but yellow garments, ample and decent, but not beautiful;\nhe must shave his head; he must have none but the most distant\nintercourse with women; he must beg his food daily in the streets; he\nmust eat but twice, and then but a certain amount, and never after noon;\nhe must take no interest in worldly affairs; he must own no property,\nmust attend no plays or performances; 'he must eat, not to satisfy his\nappetite, but to keep his body alive; he must wear clothes, not from\nvanity, but from decency; he must live under a roof, not because of\nvainglory, but because the weather renders it necessary.' All his life\nis bounded by the very strictest poverty and purity.\n\nThere is no austerity. A monk may not over-eat, but he must eat enough;\nhe must not wear fine clothes, but he must be decent and comfortable; he\nmust not have proud dwellings, but he should be sheltered from the\nweather.\n\nThere is no self-punishment in Buddhism. Did not the Buddha prove the\nfutility of this long ago? The body must be kept in health, that the\nsoul may not be hampered. And so the monks live a very healthy, very\ntemperate life, eating and drinking just enough to keep the body in good\nhealth; that is the first thing, that is the very beginning of the pure\nlife.\n\nAnd as he trains his body by careful treatment, so does he his soul. He\nmust read the sacred books, he must meditate on the teachings of the\ngreat teacher, he must try by every means in his power to bring these\ntruths home to himself, not as empty sayings, but as beliefs that are to\nbe to him the very essence of all truth. He is not cut off from society.\nThere are other monks, and there are visitors, men and women. He may\ntalk to them--he is no recluse; but he must not talk too much about\nworldly matters. He must be careful of his thoughts, that they do not\nlead him into wrong paths. His life is a life of self-culture.\n\nBeing no priest, he has few duties to others to perform; he is not\ncalled upon to interfere in the business of others. He does not visit\nthe sick; he has no concern with births and marriages and deaths. On\nSunday, and on certain other occasions, he may read the laws to the\npeople, that is all. Of this I will speak in another chapter. It does\nnot amount to a great demand upon his time. He is also the schoolmaster\nof the village, but this is aside entirely from his sacred profession.\nCertain duties he has, however. Every morning as the earliest sunlight\ncomes upon the monastery spires, when the birds are still calling to the\nday, and the cool freshness of the morning still lies along the\nhighways, you will see from every monastery the little procession come\nforth. First, perhaps, there will be two schoolboys with a gong slung on\na bamboo between them, which they strike now and then. And behind them,\nin their yellow robes, their faces cast upon the ground, and the\nbegging-bowls in their hands, follow the monks. Very slowly they pass\nalong the streets, amid the girls hurrying to their stalls in the bazaar\nwith baskets of fruit upon their heads, the housewives out to buy their\nday's requirements, the workman going to his work, the children running\nand laughing and falling in the dust. Everyone makes room for them as\nthey go in slow and solemn procession, and from this house and that\ncome forth women and children with a little rice that they have risen\nbefore daylight to cook, a little curry, a little fruit, to put into the\nbowls. Never is there any money given: a monk may not touch money, and\nhis wants are very few. Presents of books, and so on, are made at other\ntimes; but in the morning only food is given.\n\nThe gifts are never acknowledged. The cover of the bowl is removed, and\nwhen the offering has been put in, it is replaced, and the monk moves\non. And when they have made their accustomed round, they return, as they\nwent, slowly to the monastery, their bowls full of food. I do not know\nthat this food is always eaten by the monks. Frequently in large towns\nthey are fed by rich men, who send daily a hot, fresh, well-cooked meal\nfor each monk, and the collected alms are given to the poor, or to\nschoolboys, or to animals. But the begging round is never neglected, nor\nis it a form. It is a very real thing, as anyone who has seen them go\nknows. They must beg their food, and they do; it is part of the\nself-discipline that the law says is necessary to help the soul to\nhumility. And the people give because it is a good thing to give alms.\nEven if they know the monks are fed besides, they will fill the bowls as\nthe monks pass along. If the monks do not want it, there are the poor,\nthere are the schoolboys, sons of the poorest of the people, who may\noften be in need of a meal; and if a little be left, then there are the\nbirds and the beasts. It is a good thing to give alms--good for\nyourself, I mean. So that this daily procession does good in two ways:\nit is good for the monk because he learns humility; it is good for the\npeople because they have thereby offered them a chance of giving a\nlittle alms. Even the poorest may be able to give his spoonful of rice.\nAll is accepted. Think not a great gift is more acceptable than a little\none. You must judge by the giver's heart.\n\nAt every feast, every rejoicing, the central feature is presents to the\nmonks. If a man put his son into a monastery, if he make merry at a\nstroke of good fortune, if he wish to celebrate a mark of favour from\ngovernment, the principal ceremony of the feast will be presents to\nmonks. They must be presents such as the monks can accept; that is\nunderstood.\n\nTherefore, a man enters a monastery simply for this: to keep his body in\nhealth by perfect moderation and careful conduct, and to prepare his\nsoul for heaven by meditation. That is the meaning of it all.\n\nIf you see a grove of trees before you on your ride, mangoes and\ntamarinds in clusters, with palms nodding overhead, and great\nbroad-leaved plantains and flowering shrubs below, you may be sure that\nthere is a monastery, for it is one of the commands to the monks of the\nBuddha to live under the shade of lofty trees, and this command they\nalways keep. They are most beautiful, many of these monasteries--great\nbuildings of dark-brown teak, weather-stained, with two or three roofs\none above the other, and at one end a spire tapering up until it ends in\na gilded 'tee.' Many of the monasteries are covered with carving along\nthe facades and up the spires, scroll upon scroll of daintiest design,\nquaint groups of figures here and there, and on the gateways moulded\ndragons. All the carvings tell a story taken from the treasure-house of\nthe nation's infancy, quaint tales of genii and fairy and wonderful\nadventure. Never, I think, do the carvings tell anything of the sacred\nlife or teaching. The Burmese are not fond, as we are, of carving and\npainting scenes from sacred books. Perhaps they think the subject too\nholy for the hand of the craftsman, and so, with, as far as I know, but\none exception in all Burma--a pagoda built by Indian architects long\nago--you will look in vain for any sacred teaching in the carvings. But\nthey are very beautiful, and their colour is so good, the deep rich\nbrown of teak against the light green of the tamarinds, and the great\nleaves of the plantains all about. Within the monastery it will be all\nbare. However beautiful the building is without, no relaxation of his\nrules is allowed to the monk within. All is bare: only a few mats,\nperhaps, here and there on the plank floor, a hard wooden bed, a box or\ntwo of books.\n\nAt one end there will be sure to be the image of the teacher, wrought\nin alabaster. These are always one of three stereotyped designs; they\nare not works of art at all. The wealth of imagination and desire of\nbeauty that finds its expression in the carved stories in the facades\nhas no place here at all. It would be thought a sacrilege to attempt in\nany way to alter the time-honoured figures that have come down to us\nfrom long ago.\n\nOver the head of the image there will be a white or golden umbrella,\nwhence we have derived our haloes, and perhaps a lotus-blossom in an\nearthen pot in front. That will be all. There is this very remarkable\nfact: of all the great names associated with the life of the Buddha, you\nnever see any presentment at all.\n\nThe Buddha stands alone. Of Maya his mother, of Yathodaya his wife, of\nRahoula his son, of his great disciple Thariputra, of his dearest\ndisciple and brother Ananda, you see nothing. There are no saints in\nBuddhism at all, only the great teacher, he who saw the light. Surely\nthis is a curious thing, that from the time of the prince to now, two\nthousand four hundred years, no one has arisen to be worthy of mention\nof record beside him. There is only one man holy to Buddhism--Gaudama\nthe Buddha.\n\nOn one side of the monasteries there will be many pagodas, tombs of the\nBuddha. They are usually solid cones, topped with a gilded 'tee,' and\nthere are many of them. Each man will build one in his lifetime if he\ncan. They are always white or gold.\n\nSo there is much colour about a monastery--the brown of the wood and the\nwhite of the pagoda, and tender green of the trees. The ground is always\nkept clean-swept and beaten and neat. And there is plenty of sound,\ntoo--the fairy music of little bells upon the pagoda-tops when the\nbreeze moves, the cooing of the pigeons in the eaves, the voices of the\nschoolboys. Monastery land is sacred. No life may be taken there, no\nloud sounds, no noisy merriment, no abuse is permitted anywhere within\nthe fence. Monasteries are places of meditation and peace.\n\nOf course, all monasteries are not great and beautiful buildings; many\nare but huts of bamboo and straw, but little better than the villager's\nhut. Some villages are so poor that they can afford but little for their\nholy men. But always there will be trees, always the ground will be\nswept, always the place will be respected just the same. And as soon as\na good crop gives the village a little money, it will build a teak\nmonastery, be sure of that.\n\nMonasteries are free to all. Any stranger may walk into a monastery and\nreceive shelter. The monks are always hospitable. I have myself lived,\nperhaps, a quarter of my life in Burma in monasteries, or in the\nrest-houses attached to them. We break all their laws: we ride and wear\nboots within the sacred enclosure; our servants kill fowls for our\ndinners there, where all life is protected; we treat these monks, these\nwho are the honoured of the nation, much in the offhand, unceremonious\nway that we treat all Orientals; we often openly laugh at their\nreligion. And yet they always receive us; they are often even glad to\nsee us and talk to us. Very, very seldom do you meet with any return in\nkind for your contempt of their faith and habits. I have heard it said\nsometimes that some monks stand aloof, that they like to keep to\nthemselves. If they should do so, can you wonder? Would any people, not\nfirmly bound by their religion, put up with it all for a moment? If you\nwent into a Mahommedan mosque in Delhi with your boots on, you would\nprobably be killed. Yet we clump round the Shwe Dagon pagoda at our\nease, and no one interferes. Do not suppose that it is because the\nBurman believes less than the Hindu or Mahommedan. It is because he\nbelieves more, because he is taught that submission and patience are\nstrong Buddhist virtues, and that a man's conduct is an affair of his\nown soul. He is willing to believe that the Englishman's breaches of\ndecorum are due to foreign manners, to the necessities of our life, to\nignorance. But even if he supposed that we did these things out of sheer\nwantonness it would make no difference. If the foreigner is dead to\nevery feeling of respect, of courtesy, of sympathy, that is an affair of\nthe foreigner's own heart. It is not for the monk to enforce upon\nstrangers the respect and reverence due to purity, to courage, to the\nbetter things. Each man is responsible for himself, the foreigner no\nless than the Burman. If a foreigner have no respect for what is good,\nthat is his own business. It can hurt no one but himself if he is\nblatant, ignorant, contemptuous. No one is insulted by it, or requires\nrevenge for it. You might as well try and insult gravity by jeering at\nNewton and his pupils, as injure the laws of righteousness by jeering at\nthe Buddha or his monks. And so you will see foreigners take all sorts\nof liberties in monasteries and pagodas, break every rule wantonly, and\ndisregard everything the Buddhist holds holy, and yet very little notice\nwill be taken openly. Burmans will have their own opinion of you, do\nhave their own opinion of you, without a doubt; but because you are lost\nto all sense of decency, that is no reason why the Buddhist monk or\nlayman should also lower himself by getting angry and resent it; and so\nyou may walk into any monastery or rest-house and act as you think fit,\nand no one will interfere with you. Nay, if you even show a little\ncourtesy to the monks, your hosts, they will be glad to talk to you and\ntell you of their lives and their desires. It is very seldom that a\npleasant word or a jest will not bring the monks into forgetting all\nyour offences, and talking to you freely and openly. I have had, I have\nstill, many friends among the monkhood; I have been beholden to them\nfor many kindnesses; I have found them always, peasants as they are,\ncourteous and well-mannered. Nay, there are greater things than these.\n\nWhen my dear friend was murdered at the outbreak of the war, wantonly\nmurdered by the soldiers of a brutal official, and his body drifted down\nthe river, everyone afraid to bury it, for fear of the wrath of\ngovernment, was it not at last tenderly and lovingly buried by the monks\nnear whose monastery it floated ashore? Would all people have done this?\nRemember, he was one of those whose army was engaged in subduing the\nkingdom; whose army imprisoned the king, and had killed, and were\nkilling, many, many hundreds of Burmans. 'We do not remember such\nthings. All men are brothers to the dead.' They are brothers to the\nliving, too. Is there not a monastery near Kindat, built by an\nEnglishman as a memorial to the monk who saved his life at peril of his\nown at that same time, who preserved him till help came?\n\nCan anyone ever tell when the influence of a monk has been other than\nfor pity or mercy? Surely they believe their religion? I did not know\nhow people could believe till I saw them.\n\nMartyrdom--what is martyrdom, what is death, for your religion, compared\nto living within its commands? Death is easy; life it is that is\ndifficult. Men have died for many things: love and hate, and religion\nand science, for patriotism and avarice, for self-conceit and sheer\nvanity, for all sorts of things, of value and of no value. Death proves\nnothing. Even a coward can die well. But a pure life is the outcome only\nof the purest religion, of the greatest belief, of the most magnificent\ncourage. Those who can live like this can die, too, if need be--have\ndone so often and often; that is but a little matter indeed. No Buddhist\nwould consider that as a very great thing beside a holy life.\n\nThere is another difference between us. We think a good death hallows an\nevil life; no Buddhist would hear of this for a moment.\n\nThe reverence in which a monk--ay, even the monk to-day who was but an\nordinary man yesterday--is held by the people is very great. All those\nwho address him do so kneeling. Even the king himself was lower than a\nmonk, took a lower seat than a monk in the palace. He is addressed as\n'Lord,' and those who address him are his disciples. Poor as he is,\nliving on daily charity, without any power or authority of any kind, the\ngreatest in the land would dismount and yield the road that he should\npass. Such is the people's reverence for a holy life. Never was such\nvoluntary homage yielded to any as to these monks. There is a special\nlanguage for them, the ordinary language of life being too common to be\napplied to their actions. They do not sleep or eat or walk as do other\nmen.\n\nIt seems strange to us, coming from our land where poverty is an\noffence, where the receipt of alms is a degradation, where the ideal is\npower, to see here all this reversed. The monks are the poorest of the\npoor, they are dependent on the people for their daily bread; for\nalthough lands may be given to a monastery as a matter of fact, very few\nhave any at all, and those only a few palm-trees. They have no power at\nall, either temporal or eternal; they are not very learned, and yet they\nare the most honoured of all people. Without any of the attributes which\nin our experience gather the love and honour of mankind, they are\nhonoured above all men.\n\nThe Burman demands from the monk no assistance in heavenly affairs, no\ninterference in worldly, only this, that he should live as becomes a\nfollower of the great teacher. And because he does so live the Burman\nreverences him beyond all others. The king is feared, the wise man\nadmired, perhaps envied, the rich man is respected, but the monk is\nhonoured and loved. There is no one beside him in the heart of the\npeople. If you would know what a Burman would be, see what a monk is:\nthat is his ideal. But it is a very difficult ideal. The Burman is very\nfond of life, very full of life, delighting in the joy of existence,\nbrimming over with vitality, with humour, with merriment. They are a\nyoung people, in the full flush of early nationhood. To them of all\npeople the restraints of a monk's life must be terrible and hard to\nmaintain. And because it is so, because they all know how hard it is to\ndo right, and because the monks do right, they honour them, and they\nknow they deserve honour. Remember that all these people have been monks\nthemselves at one time or other; they know how hard the rules are, they\nknow how well they are observed. They are reverencing what they\nthoroughly understand; they have seen their monkhood from the inside;\ntheir reverence is the outcome of a very real knowledge.\n\nOf the internal management of the monkhood I have but little to say.\nThere is the Thathanabaing, who is the head of the community; there are\nunder him Gaing-oks, who each have charge of a district; each Gaing-ok\nhas an assistant, 'a prop,' called Gaing-dauk; and there are the heads\nof monasteries. The Thathanabaing is chosen by the heads of the\nmonasteries, and appoints his Gaing-oks and Gaing-dauks. There is no\ncomplication about it. Usually any serious dispute is decided by a court\nof three or four heads of monasteries, presided over by the Gaing-ok.\nBut note this: no monk can be tried by any ecclesiastical court without\nhis consent. Each monastery is self-governing; no monk can be called to\naccount by any Gaing-ok or Gaing-dauk unless he consents. The discipline\nis voluntary entirely. There are no punishments by law for disobedience\nof an ecclesiastical court. A monk cannot be unfrocked by his fellows.\n\nTherefore, it would seem that there would be no check over abuses, that\nmonks could do as they liked, that irregularities could creep in, and\nthat, in fact, there is nothing to prevent a monastery becoming a\ndisgrace. This would be a great mistake. It must never be forgotten that\nmonks are dependent on their village for everything--food and clothes,\nand even the monastery itself. Do not imagine that the villagers would\nallow their monks, their 'great glories,' to become a scandal to them.\nThe supervision exercised by the people over their monks is most\nstringent. As long as the monks act as monks should, they are held in\ngreat honour, they are addressed by titles of great respect, they are\nsupplied with all they want within the rules of the Wini, they are the\nglory of the village. But do you think a Burman would render this homage\nto a monk whom he could not respect, who did actions he should not? A\nmonk is one who acts as a monk. Directly he breaks his laws, his\nholiness is gone. The villagers will have none such as he. They will\nhunt him out of the village, they will refuse him food, they will make\nhim a byword, a scorn. I have known this to happen. If a monk's holiness\nbe suspected, he must clear himself before a court, or leave that place\nquickly, lest worse befall him. It is impossible to conceive any\nsupervision more close than this of the people over their monks, and so\nthe breaches of any law by the monks are very rare--very rare indeed.\nYou see, for one thing, that a monk never takes the vows for life. He\ntakes them for six months, a year, two years, very often for five\nyears; then, if he finds the life suit him, he continues. If he finds\nthat he cannot live up to the standard required, he is free to go. There\nis no compulsion to stay, no stigma on going. As a matter of fact, very\nfew monks there are but have left the monastery at one time or another.\nIt is impossible to over-estimate the value of this safety-valve. What\nwith the certainty of detection and punishment from his people, and the\nknowledge that he can leave the monastery if he will at the end of his\ntime without any reproach, a monk is almost always able to keep within\nhis rules.\n\nI have had for ten years a considerable experience of criminal law. I\nhave tried hundreds of men for all sorts of offences; I have known of\nmany hundreds more being tried, and the only cases where a monk was\nconcerned that I can remember are these: three times a monk has been\nconnected in a rebellion, once in a divorce case, once in another\noffence. This last case happened just as we annexed the country, and\nwhen our courts were not established. He was detected by the villagers,\nstripped of his robes, beaten, and hunted out of the place with every\nignominy possible. There is only one opinion amongst all those who have\ntried to study the Buddhist monkhood--that their conduct is admirable.\nDo you suppose the people would reverence it as they do if it were\ncorrupt? They know: they have seen it from the inside. It is not\noutside knowledge they have. And when it is understood that anyone can\nenter a monastery--thieves and robbers, murderers and sinners of every\ndescription, can enter, are even urged to enter monasteries, and try to\nlive the holy life; and many of them do, either as a refuge against\npursuit, or because they really repent--it will be conceded that the\ndiscipline of the monks, if obtained in a different way to elsewhere, is\nvery effective.\n\nThe more you study the monkhood, the more you see that this community is\nthe outcome of the very heart of the people. It is a part of the people,\nnot cut off from them, but of them; it is recruited in great numbers\nfrom all sorts and conditions of men. In every village and town--nearly\nevery man has been a monk at one time or another--it is honoured alike\nby all; it is kept in the straight way, not only from the inherent\nrighteousness of its teaching, but from the determination of the people\nto allow no stain to rest upon what they consider as their 'great\nglory.' This whole monkhood is founded on freedom. It is held together\nnot by a strong organization, but by general consent. There is no\nmystery about it, there are no dark places here where the sunlight of\ninquiry may not come. The whole business is so simple that the very\nchildren can and do understand it. I shall have expressed myself very\nbadly if I have not made it understood how absolutely voluntary this\nmonkhood is, held together by no everlasting vows, restrained by no\nrigid discipline. It is simply the free outcome of the free beliefs of\nthe people, as much a part of them as the fruit is of the tree. You\ncould no more imagine grapes without a vine than a Buddhist monkhood\nthat did not spring directly from, and depend entirely on, the people.\nIt is the higher expression of their life.\n\n\nIn writing this account of the Burmese and their religion, I have tried\nalways to see with my own eyes, to write my own thoughts without any\nreference to what anyone else may have thought or written. I have\nbelieved that whatever value may attach to any man's opinions consists\nin the fact that they are his opinions, and not a _rechauffe_ of the\nthoughts of others, and therefore I have not even referred to, or quoted\nfrom, any other writer, preferring to write only what I have myself seen\nand thought. But I cannot end this chapter on the monks of the Buddha\nwithout a reference to what Bishop Bigandet has said on the same\nsubject, for he is no observer prejudiced in favour of Buddhism, but the\nreverse. He was a bishop of the Church of Rome, believing always that\nhis faith contained all truth, and that the Buddha was but a 'pretended\nsaviour,' his teachings based on 'capital and revolting errors,' and\nmarked with an 'inexplicable and deplorable eccentricity.' Bishop\nBigandet was in no sympathy with Buddhism, but its avowed foe, desirous\nof undermining and destroying its influence over the hearts of men, and\nyet this is the way he ends his chapter:\n\n'There is in that religious body--the monks--a latent principle of\nvitality that keeps it up and communicates to it an amount of strength\nand energy that has hitherto maintained it in the midst of wars,\nrevolutionary and political, convulsions of all descriptions. Whether\nsupported or not by the ruling power, it has remained always firm and\nunchanged. It is impossible to account satisfactorily for such a\nphenomenon, unless we find a clear and evident cause of such\nextraordinary vitality, a cause independent of ordinary occurrences of\ntime and circumstances, a cause deeply rooted in the very soul of the\npopulations that exhibit before the observer this great and striking\nreligious feature.\n\n'That cause appears to be the strong religious sentiment, the firm\nfaith, that pervades the mass of Buddhists. The laity admire and\nvenerate the religious, and voluntarily and cheerfully contribute to\ntheir maintenance and welfare. From its ranks the religious body is\nconstantly recruited. There is hardly a man that has not been a member\nof the fraternity for a certain period of time.\n\n'Surely such a general and continued impulse could not last long unless\nit were maintained by a powerful religious connection.\n\n'The members of the order preserve, at least exteriorly, the decorum of\ntheir profession. The rules and regulations are tolerably well\nobserved; the grades of hierarchy are maintained with scrupulous\nexactitude. The life of the religious is one of restraint and perpetual\ncontrol. He is denied all sorts of pleasures and diversions. How could\nsuch a system of self-denial ever be maintained, were it not for the\nbelief which the Rahans have in the merits that they amass by following\na course of life which, after all, is repugnant to Nature? It cannot be\ndenied that human motives often influence both the laity and the\nreligious, but, divested of faith and the sentiments supplied by even a\nfalse belief, their action could not produce in a lasting and\npersevering manner the extraordinary and striking fact that we witness\nin Buddhist countries.'\n\nThis monkhood is the proof of how the people believe. Has any religion\never had for twenty-four centuries such a proof as this?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE MONKHOOD--II\n\n     'The restrained in hand, restrained in foot, restrained in speech,\n     of the greatest self-control. He whose delight is inward, who is\n     tranquil and happy when alone--him they call\n     \"mendicant.\"'--_Acceptance into the Monkhood._\n\n\nBesides being the ideal of the Buddhists, the monk is more: he is the\nschoolmaster of all the boys. It must be remembered that this is a thing\naside from his monkhood. A monk need not necessarily teach; the aim and\nobject of the monkhood is, as I have written in the last chapter, purity\nand abstraction from the world. If the monk acts as schoolmaster, that\nis a thing apart. And yet all monasteries are schools. The word in\nBurmese is the same; they are identified in popular speech and in\npopular opinion. All the monasteries are full of scholars, all the monks\nteach. I suppose much the same reasons have had influence here as in\nother nations; the desire of the parents that their children should\nlearn religion in their childhood, the fact that the wisest and most\nhonoured men entered the monkhood, the leisure of the monks giving them\nopportunity for such occupation.\n\nEvery man all through Burma has gone to a monastery school as a lad, has\nlived there with the monks, has learnt from them the elements of\neducation and a knowledge of his faith. It is an exception to find a\nBurman who cannot read and write. Sometimes from lack of practice the\nart is lost in later manhood, but it has always been acquired. The\neducation is not very deep--reading Burmese and writing; simple, very\nsimple, arithmetic; a knowledge of the days and months, and a little\ngeography, perhaps, and history--that is all that is secular. But of\ntheir religion they learn a great deal. They have to get by heart great\nportions of the sacred books, stories and teachings, and they have to\nlearn many precepts. They have to recite them, too, as those who have\nlived much near monasteries know. Several times a day, at about nine\no'clock at night, and again before dawn, you will hear the lads intoning\nclearly and loudly some of the sacred teachings. I have been awakened\nmany a time in the early morning, before the dawn, before even the\npromise of the dawn in the eastern sky, by the children's voices\nintoning. And I have put aside my curtain and looked out from my\nrest-house and seen them in the dim starlight kneeling before the\npagoda, the tomb of the great teacher, saying his laws. The light comes\nrapidly in this country: the sky reddens, the stars die quickly\noverhead, the first long beams of sunrise are trembling on the dewy\nbamboo feathers ere they have finished. It is one of the most beautiful\nsights imaginable to see monks and children kneeling on the bare ground,\nsinging while the dawn comes.\n\nThe education in their religion is very good, very thorough, not only in\nprecept, but in practice; for in the monastery you must live a holy\nlife, as the monks live, even if you are but a schoolboy.\n\nBut the secular education is limited. It is up to the standard of\neducation amongst the people at large, but that is saying little. Beyond\nreading and writing and arithmetic it generally does not go. I have seen\nthe little boys do arithmetic. They were adding sums, and they began,\nnot as we would, on the right, but on the left. They added, say, the\nhundreds first; then they wrote on the slate the number of hundreds, and\nadded up the tens. If it happened that the tens mounted up so as to add\none or more to the hundreds, a grimy little finger would wipe out the\nhundreds already written and write in the correct numbers. It follows\nthat if the units on being added up came to over ten, the tens must be\ncorrected with the grimy little finger, first put in the mouth. Perhaps\nboth tens and hundreds had to be written again. It will be seen that\nwhen you come to thousands and tens of thousands, a good deal of wiping\nout and re-writing may be required. A Burman is very bad at arithmetic;\na villager will often write 133 as 100,303; he would almost as soon\nwrite 43 as 34; both figures are in each number, you see.\n\nI never met a Burman who had any idea of cubic measurement, though land\nmeasurement they pick up very quickly.\n\nI have said that the education in the monasteries is up to the average\neducation of the people. That is so. Whether when civilization\nprogresses and more education is required the monasteries will be able\nto provide it is another thing.\n\nThe education given now is mostly a means to an end: to learning the\nprecepts of religion. Whether the monks will provide an education beyond\nsuch a want, I doubt. A monk is by his vows, by the whole tenour of his\nlife, apart from the world; too keen a search after knowledge, any kind\nof secular knowledge, would be a return to the things of this life,\nwould, perhaps, re-kindle in him the desires that the whole meaning of\nhis life is to annihilate. 'And after thou hast run over all things,\nwhat will it profit thee if thou hast neglected thyself?'\n\nBesides, no knowledge, except mere theoretical knowledge, can be\nacquired without going about in the world. You cannot cut yourself off\nfrom the world and get knowledge of it. Yet the monk is apart from the\nworld. It is true that Buddhism has no antagonism to science--nay, has\nevery sympathy with, every attraction to, science. Buddhism will never\ntry and block the progress of the truth, of light, secular or\nreligious; but whether the monks will find it within their vows to\nprovide that science, only time can prove. However it may be, it will\nnot make any difference to the estimation in which the monks are held.\nThey are not honoured for their wisdom--they often have but little; nor\nfor their learning--they often have none at all; nor for their\nindustry--they are never industrious; but because they are men trying to\nlive--nay, succeeding in living--a life void of sin. Up till now the\neducation given by the monks has met the wants of the people; in future\nit will do so less and less. But a community that has lived through\ntwenty-four centuries of change, and is now of the strength and vitality\nthat the Buddhist monkhood is, can have nothing to fear from any such\nchange. Schoolmasters, except religious and elementary, they may cease\nto be, perhaps; the pattern and ensample of purity and righteousness\nthey will always remain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nPRAYER\n\n     'What is there that can justify tears and lamentations?'\n                                           _Saying of the Buddha._\n\n\nDown below my house, in a grove of palms near the river, was a little\nrest-house. It was but a roof and a floor of teak boarding without any\nwalls, and it was plainly built. It might have held, perhaps, twenty\npeople; and here, as I strolled past in the evening when the sun was\nsetting, I would see two or three old men sitting with beads in their\nhands. They were making their devotions, saying to themselves that the\nworld was all trouble, all weariness, and that there was no rest\nanywhere except in observing the laws of righteousness. It was very\npathetic, I thought, to see them there, saying this over and over again,\nas they told their beads through their withered fingers, for surely\nthere was no necessity for them to learn it. Has not everyone learnt it,\nthis, the first truth of Buddhism, long before his hair is gray, before\nhis hands are shaking, before his teeth are gone? But there they would\nsit, evening after evening, thinking of the change about to come upon\nthem soon, realizing the emptiness of life, wishing for the Great Peace.\n\nOn Sundays the rest-house, like many others round the village, was\ncrowded. Old men there would be, and one or two young men, a few\nchildren, and many women. Early in the morning they would come, and a\nmonk would come down from the monastery near by, and each one would vow,\nwith the monk as witness, that he or she would spend the day in\nmeditation and in holy thought, would banish all thought of evil, and be\nfor the day at least holy. And then, the vow made, the devotee would go\nand sit in the rest-house and meditate. The village is not very near;\nthe sounds come very softly through the trees, not enough to disturb the\nmind; only there is the sigh of the wind wandering amid the leaves, and\nthe occasional cry of birds. Once before noon a meal will be eaten,\neither food brought with them cold, or a simple pot of rice boiled\nbeside the rest-house, and there they will stay till the sun sets and\ndarkness is gathering about the foot of the trees. There is no service\nat all. The monk may come and read part of the sacred books--some of the\nAbidama, or a sermon from the Thoots--and perhaps sometimes he may\nexpound a little; that is all. There is nothing akin to our ideas of\nworship. For consider what our service consists of: there is\nthanksgiving and praise, there is prayer, there is reading of the Bible,\nthere is a sermon. Our thanksgiving and praise is rendered to God for\nthings He has done, the pleasure that He has allowed us to enjoy, the\npunishment that He might have inflicted upon us and has not. Our prayer\nis to Him to preserve us in future, to assist us in our troubles, to\ngive us our daily food, not to be too severe upon us, not to punish us\nas we deserve, but to be merciful and kind. We ask Him to protect us\nfrom our enemies, not to allow them to triumph over us, but to give us\ntriumph over them.\n\nBut the Buddhist has far other thoughts than these. He believes that the\nworld is ruled by everlasting, unchangeable laws of righteousness. The\ngreat God lives far behind His laws, and they are for ever and ever. You\ncannot change the laws of righteousness by praising them, or by crying\nagainst them, any more than you can change the revolution of the earth.\nSin begets sorrow, sorrow is the only purifier from sin; these are\neternal sequences; they cannot be altered; it would not be good that\nthey should be altered. The Buddhist believes that the sequences are\nfounded on righteousness, are the path to righteousness, and he does not\nbelieve he could alter them for the better, even if he had the power by\nprayer to do so. He believes in the everlasting _righteousness_, that\nall things work for _good_ in the end; he has no need for prayer or\npraise; he thinks that the world is governed with far greater wisdom\nthan any of his--perfect wisdom, that is too great, too wonderful, for\nhis petty praise.\n\nGod lives far behind His laws; think not He has made them so badly as\nto require continual rectification at the prayer of man. Think not that\nGod is not bound by His own laws. The Buddhist will never believe that\nGod can break His own laws; that He is like an earthly king who imagines\none code of morality for his subjects and another for himself. Not so;\nthe great laws are founded in righteousness, so the Buddhist believes,\nin everlasting righteousness; they are perfect, far beyond our\ncomprehension; they are the eternal, unchangeable, marvellous will of\nGod, and it is our duty not to be for ever fretfully trying to change\nthem, but to be trying to understand them. That is the Buddhist belief\nin the meaning of religion, and in the laws of righteousness; that is,\nhe believes the duty of him who would follow religion to try to\nunderstand these laws, to bring them home to the heart, so to order life\nas to bring it into harmony with righteousness.\n\nNow see the difference. We believe that the world is governed not by\neternal laws, but by a changeable and continually changing God, and that\nit is our duty to try and persuade Him to make it better.\n\nWe believe, really, that we know a great deal better than God what is\ngood, not only for us, but for others; we do not believe His will is\nalways righteous--not at all: God has wrath to be deprecated; He has\nmercy to be aroused; He has partiality to be turned towards us, and\nhence our prayers.\n\nBut to the Buddhist the whole world is ruled by righteousness, the same\nfor all, the same for ever, and the only sin is ignorance of these laws.\n\nThe Buddha is he who has found for us the light to see these laws, and\nto order our life in accordance with them.\n\nNow it will be understood, I think, why there is no prayer, no gathering\ntogether for any ceremonial, in Buddhism; why there is no praise, no\nthanksgiving of any kind; why it is so very different in this way from\nour faith. Buddhism is a wisdom, a seeking of the light, a following of\nthe light, each man as best he can, and it has very little to correspond\nwith our prayer, our services of praise, our meetings together in the\nname of Christ.\n\nTherefore, when you see a man kneeling before a pagoda, moving silent\nlips of prayer, when you see the people sitting quietly in the\nrest-houses on a Sunday, when you see the old men telling their beads to\nthemselves slowly and sadly, when you hear the resonant chant of monks\nand children, lending a soul to the silence of the gloaming, you will\nknow what they are doing. They are trying to understand and bring home\nto themselves the eternal laws of righteousness; they are honouring\ntheir great teacher.\n\nThis is all that there is; this is the meaning of all that you see and\nhear. The Buddhist praises and honours the Buddha, the Indian prince\nwho so long ago went out into the wilderness to search for truth, and\nafter many years found it in his own heart; he reverences the Buddha for\nseeing the light; he thanks the Buddha for his toil and exertion in\nmaking this light known to all men. It can do the Buddha no good, all\nthis praise, for he has come to his eternal peace; but it can arouse the\nenthusiasm of the follower, can bring into his heart love for the memory\nof the great teacher, and a firm resolve to follow his teaching.\n\nThe service of his religion is to try and follow these laws, to take\nthem home into the heart, that the follower, too, may come soon into the\nGreat Peace.\n\nThis has been called pessimism. Surely it is the greatest optimism the\nworld has known--this certainty that the world is ruled by\nrighteousness, that the world has been, that the world will always be,\nruled by perfect righteousness.\n\nTo the Buddhist this is a certainty. The laws are laws of righteousness,\nif man would but see, would but understand. Do not complain and cry and\npray, but open your eyes and see. The light is all about you, if you\nwould only cast the bandage from your eyes and look. It is so wonderful,\nso beautiful, far beyond what any man has dreamt of, has prayed for, and\nit is for ever and for ever.\n\nThis is the attitude of Buddhism towards prayer, towards thanksgiving.\nIt considers them an impertinence and a foolishness, born of ignorance,\nakin to the action of him who would daily desire Atlas not to allow the\nheavens to drop upon the earth.\n\nAnd yet, and yet.\n\nI remember standing once on the platform of a famous pagoda, the golden\nspire rising before us, and carved shrines around us, and seeing a woman\nlying there, her face to the pagoda. She was praying fervently, so\nfervently that her words could be heard, for she had no care for anyone\nabout, in such trouble was she; and what she was asking was this, that\nher child, her baby, might not die. She held the little thing in her\narms, and as she looked upon it her eyes were full of tears. For it was\nvery sick; its little limbs were but thin bones, with big knees and\nelbows, and its face was very wan. It could not even take any interest\nin the wonderful sights around, but hardly opened its careworn eyes now\nand then to blink upon the world.\n\n'Let him recover, let him be well once more!' the woman cried, again and\nagain.\n\nWhom was she beseeching? I do not know.\n\n'Thakin, there will be Someone, Someone. A Spirit may hear. Who can\ntell? Surely someone will help me? Men would help me if they could, but\nthey cannot; surely there will be someone?'\n\nSo she did not remember the story of Ma Pa Da.\n\nWomen often pray, I think--they pray that their husbands and those they\nlove may be well. It is a frequent ending to a girl's letter to her\nlover: 'And I pray always that you may be well.' I never heard of their\npraying for anything but this: that they may be loved, and those they\nlove may be well. Nothing else is worth praying for besides this. The\nqueen would pray at the pagoda in the palace morning and evening. 'What\ndid she pray for?' 'What should she pray for, thakin? Surely she prayed\nthat her husband might be true to her, and that her children might live\nand be strong. That is what women pray for. Do you think a queen would\npray differently to any other woman?'\n\n'Women,' say the Buddhist monks, 'never understand. They _will_ not\nunderstand; they cannot learn. And so we say that most women must be\nborn again, as men, before they can see the light and understand the\nlaws of righteousness.'\n\nWhat do women care for laws of righteousness? What do they care for\njustice? What for the everlasting sequences that govern the world? Would\nnot they involve all other men, all earth and heaven, in bottomless\nchaos, to save one heart they loved? That is woman's religion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nFESTIVALS\n\n     'The law is sweet, filling the soul with joy.'\n                                     _Saying of the Buddha._\n\n\nThe three months of the rains, from the full moon of July to the full\nmoon of October, is the Buddhist Lent. It was during these months that\nthe Buddha would retire to some monastery and cease from travelling and\nteaching for a time. The custom was far older even than that--so old\nthat we do not know how it arose. Its origin is lost in the mists of\nfar-away time. But whatever the beginning may have been, it fits in very\nwell with the habits of the people; for in the rains travelling is not\neasy. The roads are very bad, covered even with water, often deep in\nmud; and the rest-houses, with open sides, are not very comfortable with\nthe rain drifting in. Even if there were no custom of Lent, there would\nbe but little travelling then. People would stay at home, both because\nof the discomfort of moving, and because there is much work then at the\nvillage. For this is the time to plough, this is the time to sow; on\nthe villagers' exertions in these months depends all their maintenance\nfor the rest of the year. Every man, every woman, every child, has hard\nwork of some kind or another.\n\nWhat with the difficulties of travelling, what with the work there is to\ndo, and what with the custom of Lent, everyone stays at home. It is the\ntime for prayer, for fasting, for improving the soul. Many men during\nthese months will live even as the monks live, will eat but before\nmid-day, will abstain from tobacco. There are no plays during Lent, and\nthere are no marriages. It is the time for preparing the land for the\ncrop; it is the time for preparing the soul for eternity. The\ncongregations on the Sundays will be far greater at this time than at\nany other; there will be more thought of the serious things of life.\n\nIt is a very long Lent--three months; but with the full moon of October\ncomes the end. The rains then are over; the great black bank of clouds\nthat walled up all the south so long is gone. The south wind has died\naway, and the light, fresh north wind is coming down the river. The\nroads are drying up, the work in the fields is over for a time, awaiting\nthe ripening of the grain. The damp has gone out of the air, and it is\nvery clear. You can see once more the purple mountains that you have\nmissed so long; there is a new feeling in the wind, a laughter in the\nsunshine, a flush of blossom along the fields like the awakening of a\nnew joy. The rains are gone and the cool weather is coming; Lent is\nover and gladness is returned; the crop has been sown, and soon will\ncome the reaping. And so at this full moon of October is the great feast\nof the year. There are other festivals: of the New Year, in March, with\nits water-throwing; of each great pagoda at its appointed time; but of\nall, the festival at the end of Lent is the greatest.\n\nWherever there are great pagodas the people will come in from far and\nnear for the feast. There are many great pagodas in Burma; there is the\nArakan pagoda in Mandalay, and there was the Incomparable pagoda, which\nhas been burnt; there are great pagodas at Pegu, at Prome, at many other\nplaces; but perhaps the greatest of all is the Shwe Dagon at Rangoon.\n\nYou see it from far away as you come up the river, steaming in from the\nopen sea, a great tongue of flame before you. It stands on a small\nconical hill just behind the city of Rangoon, about two miles away from\nthe wharves and shipping in the busy river. The hill has been levelled\non the top and paved into a wide platform, to which you ascend by a\nflight of many steps from the gate below, where stand the dragons. This\nentrance-way is all roofed over, and the pillars and the ceiling are red\nand painted. Here it was that much fighting took place in the early\nwars, in 1852 especially, and many men, English and Burmese, were killed\nin storming and defending this strong place. For it had been made a\nvery strong place, this holy place of him who taught that peace was the\nonly good, and the defences round about it are standing still. Upon the\ntop of this hill, the flat paved top, stands the pagoda, a great solid\ntapering cone over three hundred feet high, ending in an iron fretwork\nspire that glitters with gold and jewels; and the whole pagoda is\ncovered with gold--pure leaf-gold. Down below it is being always renewed\nby the pious offerings of those who come to pray and spread a little\ngold-leaf on it; but every now and then it is all regilt, from the top,\nfar away above you, to the golden lions that guard its base. It is a\nmost wonderful sight, this great golden cone, in that marvellous\nsunlight that bathes its sides like a golden sea. It seems to shake and\ntremble in the light like a fire. And all about the platform, edging it\nere it falls away below, are little shrines, marvels of carven woodwork\nand red lacquer. They have tapering roofs, one above another, till they,\ntoo, end in a golden spire full of little bells with tongues. As the\nwind blows the tongues move to and fro, and the air is full of music, so\nfaint, so clear, like 'silver stir of strings in hollow shells.'\n\nIn most of these shrines there are statues of the great teacher, cut in\nwhite alabaster, glimmering whitely in the lustrous shadows there\nwithin; and in one shrine is the great bell. Long ago we tried to take\nthis great bell; we tried to send it home as a war trophy, this bell\nstolen from their sacred place, but we failed. As it was being put on\nboard a ship, it slipped and fell into the river into the mud, where the\nfierce tides are ever coming and going. And when all the efforts of our\nengineers to raise it had failed, the Burmese asked: 'The bell, our\nbell, is there in the water. You cannot get it up. You have tried and\nyou have failed. If we can get it up, may we have it back to hang in our\npagoda as our own again?' And they were told, with a laugh, perhaps,\nthat they might; and so they raised it up again, the river giving back\nto them what it had refused to us, and they took and hung it where it\nused to be. There it is now, and you may hear it when you go, giving out\na long, deep note, the beat of the pagoda's heart.\n\nThere are many trees, too, about the pagoda platform--so many, that seen\nfar off you can only see the trees and the pagoda towering above them.\nHave not trees been always sacred things? Have not all religions been\nglad to give their fanes the glory and majesty of great trees?\n\nYou may look from the pagoda platform over the whole country, over the\ncity and the river and the straight streets; and on the other side you\nmay see the long white lakes and little hills covered with trees. It is\na very beautiful place, this pagoda, and it is steeped in an odour of\nholiness, the perfume of the thousand thousand prayers that have been\nprayed there, of the thousand thousand holy thoughts that have been\nthought there.\n\nThe pagoda platform is always full of people kneeling, saying over and\nover the great precepts of their faith, trying to bring into their\nhearts the meaning of the teaching of him of whom this wonderful pagoda\nrepresents the tomb. There are always monks there passing to and fro, or\nstanding leaning on the pillars of the shrines; there are always a crowd\nof people climbing up and down the long steps that lead from the road\nbelow. It is a place I always go to when I am in Rangoon; for, besides\nits beauty, there are the people; and if you go and stand near where the\nstairway reaches the platform you will see the people come up. They come\nup singly, in twos, in groups. First a nun, perhaps, walking very\nsoftly, clad in her white dress with her beads about her neck, and there\nin a corner by a little shrine she will spread a cloth upon the hard\nstones and kneel and bow her face to the great pagoda. Then she will\nrepeat, 'Sorrow, misery, trouble,' over and over again, running her\nbeads through her fingers, repeating the words in the hope that in the\nend she may understand whither they should lead her. 'Sorrow, misery,\ntrouble'--ah! surely she must know what they mean, or she would not be a\nnun. And then comes a young man, and after a reverence to the pagoda he\ngoes wandering round, looking for someone, maybe; and then comes an old\nman with his son. They stop at the little stalls on the stairs, and they\nhave bought there each a candle. The old man has a plain taper, but the\nlittle lad must have one with his emblem on it. Each day has its own\nsign, a tiger for Monday, and so on, and the lad buys a candle like a\nlittle rat, for his birthday is Friday, and the father and son go on to\nthe platform. There they kneel down side by side, the old man and the\nlittle chubby lad, and they, too, say that all is misery and delusion.\nPresently they rise and advance to the pagoda's golden base, and put\ntheir candles thereon and light them. This side of the pagoda is in\nshadow now, and so you can see the lights of the candles as little\nstars.\n\nAnd then come three girls, sisters, perhaps, all so prettily dressed,\nwith meek eyes, and they, too, buy candles; they, too, kneel and make\ntheir devotions, for long, so long, that you wonder if anything has\nhappened, if there has been any trouble that has brought them thus in\nthe sunset to the remembrance of religion. But at last they rise, and\nthey light their little candles near by where the old man and the boy\nhave lit theirs, and then they go away. They are so sad, they keep their\nfaces so turned upon the ground, that you fear there has been something,\nsome trouble come upon them. You feel so sorry for them, you would like\nto ask them what it all is; you would like to help them if you could.\nBut you can do nothing. They go away down the steps, and you hear the\nnun repeating always, 'Sorrow, misery, trouble.'\n\nSo they come and go.\n\nBut on the festival days at the end of Lent it is far more wonderful.\nThen for units there are tens, for tens there are hundreds--all come to\ndo reverence to the great teacher at this his great holy place. There is\nno especial ceremony, no great service, such as we are accustomed to on\nour festivals. Only there will be many offerings; there will be a\nprocession, maybe, with offerings to the pagoda, with offerings to the\nmonks; there will be much gold-leaf spread upon the pagoda sides; there\nwill be many people kneeling there--that is all. For, you see, Buddhism\nis not an affair of a community, but of each man's own heart.\n\nTo see the great pagoda on the festival days is one of the sights of the\nworld. There are a great crowd of people coming and going, climbing up\nthe steps. There are all sorts of people, rich and poor, old and young.\nOld men there are, climbing wearily up these steps that are so steep,\nsteps that lead towards the Great Peace; and there are old women,\ntoo--many of them.\n\nYoung men will be there, walking briskly up, laughing and talking to\neach other, very happy, very merry, glad to see each other, to see so\nmany people, calling pleasant greetings to their friends as they pass.\nThey are all so gaily dressed, with beautiful silks and white jackets\nand gay satin head-cloths, tied with a little end sticking up as a\nplume.\n\nAnd the girls, how shall I describe them, so sweet they are, so pretty\nin their fresh dresses, with downcast eyes of modesty, tempered with\nlittle side-glances. They laugh, too, as they go, and they talk, never\nforgetting the sacredness of the place, never forgetting the reverences\ndue, kneeling always first as they come up to the great pagoda, but\nbeing of good courage, happy and contented. There are children, too,\nnumbers and numbers of them, walking along, with their little hands\nclasping so tightly some bigger ones, very fearful lest they should be\nlost. They are as gay as butterflies in their dress, but their looks are\nvery solemn. There is no solemnity like that of a little child; it takes\nall the world so very, very seriously, walking along with great eyes of\nwonder at all it sees about it.\n\nThey are all well dressed who come here; on a festival day even the poor\ncan be dressed well. Pinks and reds are the prevailing colours, in\nchecks, in stripes, mixed usually with white. These colours go best with\ntheir brown skins, and they are fondest of them. But there are other\ncolours, too: there is silver and green embroidery, and there are\nshot-silks in purple and orange, and there is dark blue. All the\njackets, or nearly all the jackets, are white with wide sleeves, showing\nthe arm nearly up to the elbow. Each man has his turban very gay, while\neach girl has a bright handkerchief which she drapes as she likes upon\nher arm, or carries in her hand. Such a blaze of colour would not look\nwell with us. Under our dull skies and with our sober lights it would be\ntoo bright; but here it is not so. Everything is tempered by the sun;\nit is so brilliant, this sunlight, such a golden flood pouring down and\nbathing the whole world, that these colours are only in keeping. Before\nthem is the gold pagoda, and about them the red lacquer and dark-brown\ncarving of the shrines.\n\nYou hear voices like the murmur of a summer sea, rising and falling,\nfull of laughter low and sweet, and above is the music of the fairy\nbells.\n\nEverything is in keeping--the shining pagoda and the gaily-dressed\npeople, their voices and the bells, even the great bell far beyond, and\nall are so happy.\n\nThe feast lasts for seven days; but of these there are three that are\ngreater, and of these, one, the day of the full moon, is the greatest of\nall. On that day the offerings will be most numerous, the crowd densest.\nDown below the pagoda are many temporary stalls built, where you can buy\nall sorts of fairings, from a baby's jointed doll to a new silk dress;\nand there are restaurants where you may obtain refreshments; for the\npagoda is some way from the streets of the city, and on festival days\nrefreshments are much wanted.\n\nThese stalls are always crowded with people buying and selling, or\nlooking anxiously at the many pretty wares, unable, perhaps, to buy. The\nrefreshments are usually very simple--rice and curry for supper, and for\nlittle refreshments between whiles there are sugar-cakes and vermicelli,\nand other little cates.\n\nThe crowd going up and down the steps is like a gorgeous-coloured\nflood, crested with white foam, flowing between the dragons of the gate;\nand on the platform the crowd is thicker than ever. All day the festival\ngoes on--the praying, the offering of gifts, the burning of little\ncandles before the shrines--until the sun sets across the open country\nfar beyond in gold and crimson glory. But even then there is no pause,\nno darkness, for hardly has the sun's last bright shaft faded from the\npagoda spire far above, while his streamers are still bright across the\nwest, than there comes in the east a new radiance, so soft, so\nwonderful, it seems more beautiful than the dying day. Across the misty\nfields the moon is rising; first a crimson globe hung low among the\ntrees, but rising fast, and as it rises growing whiter. Its light comes\nflooding down upon the earth, pure silver with very black shadows. Then\nthe night breeze begins to blow, very softly, very gently, and the trees\ngive out their odour to the night, which woos them so much more sweetly\nthan the day, till the air is heavy with incense.\n\nBehold, the pagoda has started into a new glory, for it is all hung\nabout with little lamps, myriads of tiny cressets, and the facades of\nthe shrines are lit up, too. The lamps are put in long rows or in\ncircles, to fit the places they adorn. They are little earthenware jars\nfull of cocoanut-oil, with a lip where is the wick. They burn very\nredly, and throw a red light about the platform, breaking the shadows\nthat the moonlight throws and staining its whiteness.\n\nIn the streets, too, there are lamps--the houses are lined with\nthem--and there are little pagodas and ships curiously designed in\nflame.\n\nAll the people come out to see the illuminations, just as they do with\nus at Christmas to see the shop-windows, and the streets are crowded\nwith people going to and fro, laughing and talking. And there are\ndramatic entertainments going on, dances and marionette shows, all in\nthe open air. The people are all so happy, they take their pleasure so\npleasantly, that it is a delight to see them. You cannot help but be\nhappy, too. The men joke and laugh, and you laugh, too; the children\nsmile at you as they pass, and you must smile, too; can you help it? And\nto see the girls makes the heart glad within you. There is an infection\nfrom the good temper and the gaiety about you that is irresistible, even\nif you should want to resist it.\n\nThe festival goes on till very late. The moon is so bright that you\nforget how late it is, and only remember how beautiful it is all around.\nYou are very loath to leave it, and so it is not till the moon itself is\nfalling low down in the same path whither the sun went before her, it is\nnot till the lamps are dying one by one and the children are yawning\nvery sleepily, that the crowd disperses and the pagoda is at rest.\n\nSuch is a great feast at a great pagoda.\n\nBut whenever I think of a great feast, whenever the growing autumn moon\ntells me that the end of Lent is drawing nigh, it is not the great feast\nof the Shwe Dagon, nor of any other famous pagoda that comes into my\nmind, but something far different.\n\nIt was on a frontier long ago that there was the festival that I\nremember so well. The country there was very far away from all the big\ntowns; the people were not civilized as those of Mandalay or of Rangoon;\nthe pagoda was a very small one. There was no gilding upon it at all,\nand no shrines were about it; it stood alone, just a little white\nplastered pagoda, with a few trees near it, on a bare rice-field. There\nwere a few villages about, dotted here and there in the swamp, and the\npeople of these were all that came to our festival.\n\nFor long before the villages were preparing for it, saving a little\nmoney here, doing a little extra work there, so that they might be able\nto have presents ready for the monks, so that they might be able to\nsubscribe to the lights, so that they would have a good dress in which\nthey might appear.\n\nThe men did a little more work at the fields, bamboo-cutting in the\nforest, making baskets in the evening, and the women wove. All had to\nwork very hard to have even a little margin; for there, although\nfood--plain rice--was very cheap, all other things were very expensive.\nIt was so far to bring them, and the roads were so bad. I remember that\nthe only European things to be bought there then were matches and\ntinned milk, and copper money was not known. You paid a rupee, and took\nthe change in rice or other commodities.\n\nThe excitement of the great day of the full moon began in the morning,\nabout ten o'clock, with the offerings to the monks. Outside the village\ngate there was a piece of straight road, dry and open, and on each side\nof this, in rows, were the people with their gifts; mostly they were\neatables. You see that it is very difficult to find any variety of\nthings to give a monk; he is very strictly limited in the things he is\nallowed to receive. Garments, yellow garments, curtains to partition off\ncorners of the monasteries and keep away the draughts, sacred books and\neatables--that is nearly all. But eatables allow a very wide range. A\nmonk may accept and eat any food--not drink, of course--provided he eat\nbut the one big meal a day before noon; and so most of the offerings\nwere eatables. Each donor knelt there upon the road with his or her\nofferings in a tray in front. There was rice cooked in all sorts of\nshapes, ordinary rice for eating with curry, and the sweet purple rice,\ncooked in bamboos and coming out in sticks. There were vegetables, too,\nof very many kinds, and sugar and cakes and oil and honey, and many\nother such things. There were a few, very few, books, for they are very\nhard to get, being all in manuscript; and there were one or two tapestry\ncurtains; but there were heaps of flowers. I remember there was one girl\nwhose whole offering was a few orchid sprays, and a little, very\nlittle, heap of common rice. She was so poor; her father and mother were\ndead, and she was not married. It was all she could give. She sat behind\nher little offering, as did all the donors. And my gift? Well, although\nan English official, I was not then very much richer than the people\nabout me, so my gift must be small, too--a tin of biscuits, a tin or two\nof jam, a new pair of scissors. I did not sit behind them myself, but\ngave them to the headman to put with his offerings; for the monks were\nold friends of mine. Did I not live in one of their monasteries for over\ntwo months when we first came and camped there with a cavalry squadron?\nAnd if there is any merit in such little charity, as the Burmese say\nthere is, why should I not gain it, too? The monks said my present was\nbest of all, because it was so uncommon; and the biscuits, they said,\nthough they did not taste of much while you were eating them, had a very\npleasant after-taste that lasted a long time. They were like charity,\nmaybe: that has a pleasant after-taste, too, they tell me.\n\nWhen all the presents, with the donors behind them, dressed all in their\nbest, were ready, the monks came. There were four monasteries near by,\nand the monks, perhaps in all thirty, old and young, monks and novices,\ncame in one long procession, walking very slowly, with downcast eyes,\nbetween the rows of gifts and givers. They did not look at them at all.\nIt is not proper for a monk to notice the gifts he receives; but\nschoolboys who came along behind attending on them, they saw and made\nremarks. Perhaps they saw the chance of some overflow of these good\nthings coming their way. 'See,' one nudged the other; 'honey--what a\nlot! I can smell it, can't you?' And, '_My mother!_ what a lot of sweet\nrice. Who gave that? Oh, I see, old U Hman.' 'I wonder what's in that\ntin box?' remarked one as he passed my biscuits. 'I hope it's coming to\nour monastery, any way.'\n\nThus the monks passed, paying no sort of attention, while the people\nknelt to them; and when the procession reached the end of the line of\nofferings, it went on without stopping, across the fields, the monks of\neach monastery going to their own place; and the givers of presents rose\nup and followed them, each carrying his or her gifts. And so they went\nacross the fields till each little procession was lost to sight.\n\nThat was all the ceremony for the day, but at dusk the illuminations\nbegan. The little pagoda in the fields was lighted up nearly to its top\nwith concentric rings of lamps till it blazed like a pyramid of flame,\nseen far across the night. All the people came there, and placed little\nofferings of flowers at the foot of the pagoda, or added each his candle\nto the big illumination.\n\nThe house of the headman of the village was lit up with a few rows of\nlamps, and all the monasteries, too, were lit. There were no\nrestaurants--everyone was at home, you see--but there were one or two\nlittle stalls, at which you could buy a cheroot, or even perhaps a cup\nof vermicelli; and there was a dance. It was only the village girls who\nhad been taught, partly by their own mothers, partly by an old man, who\nknew something of the business. They did not dance very well, perhaps;\nthey were none of them very beautiful; but what matter? We knew them\nall; they were our neighbours, the kinswomen of half the village;\neveryone liked to see them dance, to hear them sing; they were all\nyoung, and are not all young girls pretty? And amongst the audience were\nthere not the girls' relations, their sisters, their lovers? would not\nthat alone make the girls dance well, make the audience enthusiastic?\nAnd so, what with the illuminations, and the chat and laughter of\nfriends, and the dance, we kept it up till very late; and we all went to\nbed happy and well pleased with each other, well pleased with ourselves.\nCan you imagine a more successful end than that?\n\nTo write about these festivals is so pleasant, it brings back so many\ndelightful memories, that I could go on writing for long and long. But\nthere is no use in doing so, as they are all very much alike, with\nlittle local differences depending on the enterprise of the inhabitants\nand the situation of the place. There might be boat-races, perhaps, on a\nfestival day, or pony-races, or boxing. I have seen all these, if not\nat the festival at the end of Lent, at other festivals. I remember once\nI was going up the river on a festival night by the full moon, and we\nsaw point after point crowned with lights upon the pagodas; and as we\ncame near the great city we saw a new glory; for there was a boat\nanchored in mid-stream, and from this boat there dropped a stream of\nfire; myriads of little lamps burned on tiny rafts that drifted down the\nriver in a golden band. There were every now and then bigger rafts, with\nfigures made in light--boats and pagodas and monasteries. The lights\nheaved with the long swell of the great river, and bent to and fro like\na great snake following the tides, until at length they died far away\ninto the night.\n\nI do not know what is the meaning of all these lights; I do not know\nthat they have any inner meaning, only that the people are very glad,\nonly that they greatly honour the great teacher who died so long ago,\nonly that they are very fond of light and colour and laughter and all\nbeautiful things.\n\nBut although these festivals often become also fairs, although they are\nthe great centres for amusement, although the people look to them as\ntheir great pleasure of the year, it must not be forgotten that they are\nessentially religious feasts, holy days. Though there be no great\nceremony of prayer, or of thanksgiving, no public joining in any\nreligious ceremony, save, perhaps, the giving of alms to the monks, yet\nreligion is the heart and soul of them. Their centre is the pagoda,\ntheir meaning is a religious meaning.\n\nWhat if the people make merry, too, if they make their holy days into\nholidays, is that any harm? For their pleasures are very simple, very\ninnocent; there is nothing that the moon, even the cold and distant\nmoon, would blush to look upon. The people make merry because they are\nmerry, because their religion is to them a very beautiful thing, not to\nbe shunned or feared, but to be exalted to the eye of day, to be\nrejoiced in.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nWOMEN--I\n\n     'Her cheek is more beautiful than the dawn, her eyes are deeper\n     than the river pools; when she loosens her hair upon her shoulders,\n     it is as night coming over the hills.'--_Burmese Love-Song._\n\n\nIf you were to ask a Burman 'What is the position of women in Burma?' he\nwould reply that he did not know what you meant. Women have no position,\nno fixed relation towards men beyond that fixed by the fact that women\nare women and men are men. They differ a great deal in many ways, so a\nBurman would say; men are better in some things, women are better in\nothers; if they have a position, their relative superiority in certain\nthings determines it. How else should it be determined?\n\nIf you say by religion, he laughs, and asks what religion has to do with\nsuch things? Religion is a culture of the soul; it is not concerned with\nthe relationship of men and women. If you say by law, he says that law\nhas no more to do with it than religion. In the eye of the law both are\nalike. 'You wouldn't have one law for a man and another for a woman?' he\nasks.\n\nIn the life of the Buddha nothing is said upon the subject. The great\nteacher never committed himself to an opinion as to whether men or women\nwere the highest. He had men disciples, he had women disciples; he\nhonoured both. Nowhere in any of his sayings can anything be found to\nshow that he made any difference between them. That monks should be\ncareful and avoid intercourse with women is merely the counterpart of\nthe order that nuns should be careful in their intercourse with men.\nThat man's greatest attraction is woman does not infer wickedness in\nwoman; that woman's greatest attraction is man does not show that man is\na devil. Wickedness is a thing of your own heart. If he could be sure\nthat his desire towards women was dead, a monk might see them as much as\nhe liked. The desire is the enemy, not the woman; therefore a woman is\nnot damned because by her man is often tempted to evil; therefore a\nwoman is not praised because by her a man may be led to better thoughts.\nShe is but the outer and unconscious influence.\n\nIf, for instance, you cannot see a precipice without wishing to throw\nyourself down, you blame not the precipice, but your giddiness; and if\nyou are wise you avoid precipices in future. You do not rail against\nsteep places because you have a bad circulation. So it is with women:\nyou should not contemn women because they rouse a devil in man.\n\nAnd it is the same with man. Men and women are alike subject to the\neternal laws. And they are alike subject to the laws of man; in no\nmaterial points, hardly even in minor points, does the law discriminate\nagainst women.\n\nThe law as regards marriage and inheritance and divorce will come each\nin its own place. It is curiously the same both for the man and the\nwoman.\n\nThe criminal law was the same for both; I have tried to find any\ndifference, and this is all I have found: A woman's life was less\nvaluable than a man's. The price of the body, as it is called, of a\nwoman was less than that of a man. If a woman were accidentally killed,\nless compensation had to be paid than for a man. I asked a Burman about\nthis once.\n\n'Why is this difference?' I said. 'Why does the law discriminate?'\n\n'It isn't the law,' he said, 'it is a fact. A woman is worth less than a\nman in that way. A maidservant can be hired for less than a manservant,\na daughter can claim less than a son. They cannot do so much work; they\nare not so strong. If they had been worth more, the law would have been\nthe other way; of course they are worth less.'\n\nAnd so this sole discrimination is a fact, not dogma. It is a fact, no\ndoubt, everywhere. No one would deny it. The pecuniary value of a woman\nis less than that of a man. As to the soul's value, that is not a\nquestion of law, which confines itself to material affairs. But I\nsuppose all laws have been framed out of the necessities of mankind. It\nwas the incessant fighting during the times when our laws grew slowly\ninto shape, the necessity of not allowing the possession of land, and\nthe armed wealth that land gave, to fall into the weaker hands of women,\nthat led to our laws of inheritance.\n\nLaws then were governed by the necessity of war, of subjecting\neverything else to the ability to fight. Consequently, as women were not\nsuch good fighters as men, they went to the wall. But feudalism never\nobtained at all in Burma. What fighting they did was far less severe\nthan that of our ancestors, was not the dominant factor in the position,\nand consequently woman did not suffer.\n\nShe has thus been given the inestimable boon of freedom. Freedom from\nsacerdotal dogma, from secular law, she has always had.\n\nAnd so, in order to preserve the life of the people, it has never been\nnecessary to pass laws treating woman unfairly as regards inheritance;\nand as religion has left her free to find her own position, so has the\nlaw of the land.\n\nAnd yet the Burman man has a confirmed opinion that he is better than a\nwoman, that men are on the whole superior as a sex to women. 'We may be\ninferior in some ways,' he will tell you. 'A woman may steal a march on\nus here and there, but in the long-run the man will always win. Women\nhave no patience.'\n\nI have heard this said over and over again, even by women, that they\nhave less patience than a man. We have often supposed differently. Some\nBurmans have even supposed that a woman must be reincarnated as a man to\ngain a step in holiness. I do not mean that they think men are always\nbetter than women, but that the best men are far better than the best\nwomen, and there are many more of them. However all this may be, it is\nonly an opinion. Neither in their law, nor in their religion, nor--what\nis far more important--in their daily life, do they acknowledge any\ninferiority in women beyond those patent weaknesses of body that are,\nperhaps, more differences than inferiorities.\n\nAnd so she has always had fair-play, from religion, from law, and from\nher fellow man and woman.\n\nShe has been bound by no ties, she has had perfect freedom to make for\nherself just such a life as she thinks best fitted for her. She has had\nno frozen ideals of a long dead past held up to her as eternal copies.\nShe has been allowed to change as her world changed, and she has lived\nin a very real world--a world of stern facts, not fancies. You see, she\nhas had to fight her own way; for the same laws that made woman lower\nthan man in Europe compensated her to a certain extent by protection\nand guidance. In Burma she has been neither confined nor guided. In\nEurope and India for very long the idea was to make woman a hot-house\nplant, to see that no rough winds struck her, that no injuries overtook\nher. In Burma she has had to look out for herself: she has had freedom\nto come to grief as well as to come to strength. You see, all such laws\ncut both ways. Freedom to do ill must accompany freedom to do well. You\ncannot have one without the other. The Burmese woman has had both.\nIdeals act for good as well as for evil; if they cramp all progress,\nthey nevertheless tend to the sustentation of a certain level of\nthought. She has had none. Whatever she is, she has made herself,\nfinding under the varying circumstances of life what is the best for\nher; and as her surroundings change, so will she. What she was a\nthousand years ago I do not care, what she may be a thousand years hence\nI do not know; it is of what she is to-day that I have tried to know and\nwrite.\n\nChildren in Burma have, I think, a very good time when they are young.\nParentage in Burma has never degenerated into a sort of slavery. It has\nnever been supposed that gaiety and goodness are opposed. And so they\ngrow up little merry naked things, sprawling in the dust of the gardens,\nsleeping in the sun with their arms round the village dogs, very sedate,\nvery humorous, very rarely crying. Boys and girls when they are babies\ngrow up together, but with the schooldays comes a division. All the\nboys go to school at the monastery without the walls, and there learn in\nnoisy fashion their arithmetic, letters, and other useful knowledge. But\nlittle girls have nowhere to go. They cannot go to the monasteries,\nthese are for boys alone, and the nunneries are very scarce. For twenty\nmonasteries there is not one nunnery. Women do not seem to care to learn\nto become nuns as men do to become monks. Why this is so I cannot tell,\nbut there is no doubt of the fact. And so there are no schools for girls\nas there are for boys, and consequently the girls are not well educated\nas a rule. In great towns there are, of course, regular schools for\ngirls, generally for girls and boys together; but in the villages these\nvery seldom exist. The girls may learn from their mothers how to read\nand write, but most of them cannot do so. It is an exception in country\nplaces to find a girl who can read, as it is to find a boy who cannot.\nIf there were more nunneries, there would be more education among the\nwomen; here is cause and effect. But there are not, so the little girls\nwork instead. While their brothers are in the monasteries, the girls are\nlearning to weave and herd cattle, drawing water, and collecting\nfirewood. They begin very young at this work, but it is very light; they\nare never overworked, and so it does them no harm usually, but good.\n\nThe daughters of better-class people, such as merchants, and clerks, and\nadvocates, do not, of course, work at field labour. They usually learn\nto read and write at home, and they weave, and many will draw water. For\nto draw water is to go to the well, and the well is the great\nmeeting-place of the village. As they fill their jars they lean over the\ncurb and talk, and it is here that is told the latest news, the latest\nflirtation, the little scandal of the place. Very few men or boys come\nfor water; carrying is not their duty, and there is a proper place for\nflirtation. So the girls have the well almost to themselves.\n\nAlmost every girl can weave. In many houses there are looms where the\ngirls weave their dresses and those of their parents; and many girls\nhave stalls in the bazaar. Of this I will speak later. Other duties are\nthe husking of rice and the making of cheroots. Of course, in richer\nhouseholds there will be servants to do all this; but even in them the\ndaughter will frequently weave either for herself or her parents. Almost\nevery girl will do something, if only to pass the time.\n\nYou see, they have no accomplishments. They do not sing, nor play, nor\npaint. It must never be forgotten that their civilization is relatively\na thousand years behind ours. Accomplishments are part of the polish\nthat a civilization gives, and this they have not yet reached.\nAccomplishments are also the means to fill up time otherwise unoccupied;\nbut very few Burmese girls have any time on their hands. There is no\nleisured class, and there are very few girls who have not to help, in\none way or another, at the upkeep of the household.\n\nMr. Rudyard Kipling tells of an astonishing young lady who played the\nbanjo. He has been more fortunate than myself, for I have never had such\ngood luck. They have no accomplishments at all. Housekeeping they have\nnot very much of. You see, houses are small, and households also are\nsmall; there is very little furniture; and as the cooking is all the\nsame, there is not much to learn in that way. I fear, too, that their\nhouses could not compete as models of neatness with any other nation.\nTidiness is one of the last gifts of civilization. We now pride\nourselves on our order; we forget how very recent an accomplishment it\nis. To them it will come with the other gifts of age, for it must never\nbe forgotten that they are a very young people--only children, big\nchildren--learning very slowly the lessons of experience and knowledge.\n\nWhen they are between eight and fourteen years of age the boys become\nmonks for a time, as every boy must, and they have a great festival at\ntheir entrance into the monastery. Girls do not enter nunneries, but\nthey, too, have a great feast in their honour. They have their ears\nbored. It is a festival for a girl of great importance, this ear-boring,\nand, according to the wealth of the parents, it is accompanied by pwes\nand other rejoicings.\n\nA little girl, the daughter of a shopkeeper here in this town, had her\nears bored the other day, and there were great rejoicings. There was a\npwe open to all for three nights, and there were great quantities of\nfood, and sweets, and many presents given away, and on the last night\nthe river was illuminated. There was a boat anchored in mid-stream, and\nfrom this were launched myriads of tiny rafts, each with a little lamp\non board. The lamps gleamed bright with golden light as they drifted on\nthe bosom of the great water, a moving line of living fire. There were\nlittle boats, too, with the outlines marked with lamps, and there were\npagodas and miniature houses all floating, floating down the river,\ntill, in far distance by the promontory, the lamps flickered out one by\none, and the river fell asleep again.\n\n'There is only one great festival in a girl's life,' a woman told me.\n'We try to make it as good as we can. Boys have many festivals, girls\nhave but one. It is only just that it should be good.'\n\nAnd so they grow up very quiet, very sedate, looking on the world about\nthem with very clear eyes. It is strange, talking to Burmese girls, to\nsee how much they know and understand of the world about them. It is to\nthem no great mystery, full of unimaginable good and evil, but a world\nthat they are learning to understand, and where good and evil are never\nunmixed. Men are to them neither angels nor devils, but just men, and so\nthe world does not hold for them the disappointments, the\ndisillusionings, that await those who do not know. They have their\ndreams--who shall doubt it?--dreams of him who shall love them, whom\nthey shall love, who shall make life one great glory to them; but their\ndreams are dreams that can come true. They do not frame to themselves\nideals out of their own ignorance and imagine these to be good, but they\nkeep their eyes wide open to the far more beautiful realities that are\naround them every day. They know that a living lover is greater, and\ntruer, and better than any ideal of a girl's dream. They live in a real\nworld, and they know that it is good.\n\nIn time the lover comes. There is a delightful custom all through Burma,\nan institution, in fact, called 'courting-time.' It is from nine till\nten o'clock, more especially on moonlight nights, those wonderful tropic\nnights, when the whole world lies in a silver dream, when the little\nwandering airs that touch your cheek like a caress are heavy with the\nscent of flowers, and your heart comes into your throat for the very\nbeauty of life.\n\nThere is in front of every house a veranda, raised perhaps three feet\nfrom the ground, and there the girl will sit in the shadow of the eaves,\nsometimes with a friend, but usually alone; and her suitors will come\nand stand by the veranda, and talk softly in little broken sentences, as\nlovers do. There maybe be many young men come, one by one, if they mean\nbusiness, with a friend if it be merely a visit of courtesy. And the\ngirl will receive them all, and will talk to them all; will laugh with a\nlittle humorous knowledge of each man's peculiarities; and she may give\nthem cheroots, of her own making; and, for one perhaps, for one, she\nwill light the cheroot herself first, and thus kiss him by proxy.\n\nAnd is the girl alone? Well, yes. To all intents and purposes she is\nalone; but there is always someone near, someone within call, for the\nveranda is free to all. She cannot tell who may come, and some men, as\nwe know, are but wolves in sheep's clothing. Usually marriages are\narranged by the parents. Girls are not very different here to elsewhere;\nthey are very biddable, and ready to do what their mothers tell them,\nready to believe that it is the best. And so if a lad comes wooing, and\ncan gain the mother's ear, he can usually win the girl's affection, too;\nbut I think there are more exceptions here than elsewhere. Girls are\nfreer; they fall in love of their own accord oftener than elsewhere;\nthey are very impulsive, full of passion. Love is a very serious matter,\nand they are not trained in self-restraint.\n\nThere are very many romances played out every day in the dusk beside the\nwell, in the deep shadows of the palm-groves, in the luminous nights by\nthe river shore--romances that end sometimes well, sometimes in terrible\ntragedies. For they are a very passionate people; the language is full\nof little love-songs, songs of a man to a girl, of a girl to a man. 'No\ngirl,' a woman once told me, 'no good, quiet girl would tell a man she\nloved him first.' It may be so; if this be true, I fear there are many\ngirls here who are not good and quiet. How many romances have I not seen\nin which the wooing began with the girl, with a little note perhaps,\nwith a flower, with a message sent by someone whom she could trust! Of\ncourse many of these turned out well. Parents are good to their\nchildren, and if they can, they will give their daughter the husband of\nher choice. They remember what youth is--nay, they themselves never grow\nold, I think; they never forget what once was to them now is to their\nchildren. So if it be possible all may yet go well. Social differences\nare not so great as with us, and the barrier is easily overcome. I have\noften known servants in a house marry the daughters, and be taken into\nthe family; but, of course, sometimes things do not go so smoothly. And\nthen? Well, then there is usually an elopement, and a ten days' scandal;\nand sometimes, too, there is an elopement for no reason at all save that\nhot youth cannot abide the necessary delay.\n\nFor life is short, and though to-day be to us, who can tell for the\nmorrow? During the full moon there is no night, only a change to silver\nlight from golden; and the forest is full of delight. There are\nwood-cutters' huts in the ravines where the water falls, soft beds of\ntorn bracken and fragrant grasses where great trees make a shelter from\nthe heat; and for food, that is easily arranged. A basket of rice with\na little salt-fish and spices is easily hidden in a favourable place.\nYou only want a jar to cook it, and there is enough for two for a week;\nor it is brought day by day by some trusted friend to a place previously\nagreed upon.\n\nAll up and down the forest there are flowers for her hair, scarlet dak\nblossoms and orchid sprays and jasmine stars; and for occupation through\nthe hours each has a new world to explore full of wonderful undreamt-of\ndiscoveries, lit with new light and mysterious with roseate shadows, a\nworld of 'beautiful things made new' for those forest children. So that\nwhen the confidante, an aunt maybe or a sister, meets them by the sacred\nfig-tree on the hill, and tells them that all difficulties are removed,\nand their friends called together for the marriage, can you wonder that\nit is not without regret that they fare forth from that enchanted land\nto ordinary life again?\n\nIt is, as I have said, not always the man who is the proposer of the\nflight. Nay, I think indeed that it is usually the girl. 'Men have more\npatience.'\n\nI had a Burmese servant, a boy, who may have been twenty, and he had\nbeen with me a year, and was beginning to be really useful. He had at\nlast grasped the idea that electro-plate should not be cleaned with\nmonkey-brand soap, and he could be trusted not to put up rifle\ncartridges for use with a double-barrelled gun; and he chose this time\nto fall in love with the daughter of the headman of a certain village\nwhere I was in camp.\n\nHe had good excuse, for she was a delicious little maiden with great\ncoils of hair, and the voice of a wood-pigeon cooing in the forest, and\nshe was very fond of him, without a doubt.\n\nSo one evening he came to me and said that he must leave me--that he\nwanted to get married, and could not possibly delay. Then I spoke to him\nwith all that depth of wisdom we are so ready to display for the benefit\nof others. I pointed out to him that he was much too young, that she was\nmuch too young also--she was not eighteen--and that there was absolutely\nnothing for them to marry on. I further pointed out how ungrateful it\nwould be of him to leave me; that he had been paid regularly for a year,\nand that it was not right that now, when he was at last able to do\nsomething besides destroy my property, he should go away.\n\nThe boy listened to all I had to say, and agreed with it all, and made\nthe most fervent and sincere promise to be wise; and he went away after\ndinner to see the girl and tell her, and when I awoke in the morning my\nother servants told me the boy had not returned.\n\nShortly afterwards the headman came to say that his daughter had also\ndisappeared. They had fled, those two, into the forest, and for a week\nwe heard nothing. At last one evening, as I sat under the great fig-tree\nby my tent, there came to me the mother of the girl, and she sat down\nbefore me, and said she had something of great importance to impart: and\nthis was that all had been arranged between the families, who had found\nwork for the boy whereby he might maintain himself and his wife, and the\nmarriage was arranged. But the boy would not return as long as I was in\ncamp there, for he was bitterly ashamed of his broken vows and afraid to\nmeet my anger. And so the mother begged me to go away as soon as I\ncould, that the young couple might return. I explained that I was not\nangry at all, that the boy could return without any fear; on the\ncontrary, that I should be pleased to see him and his wife. And, at the\nold lady's request, I wrote a Burmese letter to that effect, and she\nwent away delighted.\n\nThey must have been in hiding close by, for it was early next morning\nthat the boy came into my tent alone and very much abashed, and it was\nsome little time before he could recover himself and talk freely as he\nwould before, for he was greatly ashamed of himself.\n\nBut, after all, could he help it?\n\nIf you can imagine the tropic night, and the boy, full of high resolve,\npassing up the village street, now half asleep, and the girl, with\nshining eyes, coming to him out of the hibiscus shadows, and whispering\nin his ear words--words that I need not say--if you imagine all that,\nyou will understand how it was that I lost my servant.\n\nThey both came to see me later on in the day after the marriage, and\nthere was no bashfulness about either of them then. They came\nhand-in-hand, with the girl's father and mother and some friends, and\nshe told me it was all her fault: she could not wait.\n\n'Perhaps,' she said, with a little laugh and a side-glance at her\nhusband--'perhaps, if he had gone with the thakin to Rangoon, he might\nhave fallen in love with someone there and forgotten me; for I know they\nare very pretty, those Rangoon ladies, and of better manners than I, who\nam but a jungle girl.'\n\nAnd when I asked her what it was like in the forest, she said it was the\nmost beautiful place in all the world.\n\nThings do not always go so well. Parents may be obdurate, and flight be\nimpossible; or even her love may not be returned, and then terrible\nthings happen. I have held, not once nor twice alone, inquests over the\nbodies, the fair, innocent bodies, of quite young girls who died for\nlove. Only that, because their love was unreturned; and so the sore\nlittle heart turned in her trouble to the great river, and gave herself\nand her hot despair to the cold forgetfulness of its waters.\n\nThey love so greatly that they cannot face a world where love is not.\nAll the country is full of the romance of love--of love passionate and\ngreat as woman has ever felt. It seems to me here that woman has\nsomething of the passions of man, not only the enduring affection of a\nwoman, but the hot love and daring of a man. It is part of their\nheritage, perhaps, as a people in their youth. One sees so much of it,\nhears so much of it, here. I have seen a girl in man's attire killed in\na surprise attack upon an insurgent camp. She had followed her outlawed\nlover there, and in the melee she caught up sword and gun to fight by\nhis side, and was cut down through neck and shoulder; for no one could\ntell in the early dawn that it was a girl.\n\nShe died about an hour afterwards, and though I have seen many sorrowful\nthings in many lands, in war and out of it, the memory of that dying\ngirl, held up by one of the mounted police, sobbing out her life beneath\nthe wild forest shadow, with no one of her sex, no one of her kin to\nhelp her, comes back to me as one of the saddest and strangest.\n\nHer lover was killed in action some time later fighting against us, and\nhe died as a brave man should, his face to his enemy. He played his\ngame, he lost, and paid; but the girl?\n\nI have seen and heard so much of this love of women and of its\ntragedies. Perhaps it is that to us it is usually the tragedies that are\nbest remembered. Happiness is void of interest. And this love may be,\nafter all, a good thing. But I do not know. Sometimes I think they would\nbe happier if they could love less, if they could take love more\nquietly, more as a matter of course, as something that has to be gone\nthrough, as part of a life's training; not as a thing that swallows up\nall life and death and eternity in one passion.\n\nIn Burmese the love-songs are in a short, sweet rhythm, full of quaint\nconceits and word-music. I cannot put them into English verse, or give\nthe flow of the originals in a translation. It always seems to me that\nDon Quixote was right when he said that a translation was like the wrong\nside of an embroidered cloth, giving the design without the beauty. But\neven in the plain, rough outline of a translation there is beauty here,\nI think:\n\n\n                       _From a Man to a Girl._\n\nThe moon wooed the lotus in the night, the lotus was wooed by the moon,\nand my sweetheart is their child. The blossom opened in the night, and\nshe came forth; the petals moved, and she was born.\n\nShe is more beautiful than any blossom; her face is as delicate as the\ndusk; her hair is as night falling over the hills; her skin is as bright\nas the diamond. She is very full of health, no sickness can come near\nher.\n\nWhen the wind blows I am afraid, when the breezes move I fear. I fear\nlest the south wind take her, I tremble lest the breath of evening woo\nher from me--so light is she, so graceful.\n\nHer dress is of gold, even of silk and gold, and her bracelets are of\nfine gold. She hath precious stones in her ears, but her eyes, what\njewels can compare unto them?\n\nShe is proud, my mistress; she is very proud, and all men are afraid of\nher. She is so beautiful and so proud that all men fear her.\n\nIn the whole world there is none anywhere that can compare unto her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nWOMEN--II\n\n     'The husband is lord of the wife.'\n                               _Laws of Manu._\n\n\nMarriage is not a religious ceremony among the Burmese. Religion has no\npart in it at all; as religion has refrained from interfering with\nGovernment, so does it in the relations of man and wife. Marriage is\npurely a worldly business, like entering into partnership; and religion,\nthe Buddhist religion, has nothing to do with such things. Those who\naccept the teachings of the great teacher in all their fulness do not\nmarry.\n\nIndeed, marriage is not a ceremony at all. It is strange to find that\nthe Burmese have actually no necessary ceremonial. The Laws of Manu,\nwhich are the laws governing all such matters, make no mention of any\nmarriage ceremony; it is, in fact, a status. Just as two men may go into\npartnership in business without executing any deed, so a man and a woman\nmay enter into the marriage state without undergoing any form. Amongst\nthe richer Burmese there is, however, sometimes a ceremony.\n\nFriends are called to the wedding, and a ribbon is stretched round the\ncouple, and then their hands are clasped; they also eat out of the same\ndish. All this is very pretty, but not at all necessary.\n\nIt is, indeed, not a settled point in law what constitutes a marriage,\nbut there are certain things that will render it void. For instance, no\nmarriage can be a marriage without the consent of the girl's parents if\nshe be under age, and there are certain other conditions which must be\nfulfilled.\n\nBut although there be this doubt about the actual ceremony of marriage,\nthere is none at all about the status. There is no confusion between a\nwoman who is married and a woman who is not. The condition of marriage\nis well known, and it brings the parties under the laws that pertain to\nhusband and wife. A woman not married does not, of course, obtain these\nprivileges; there is a very strict line between the two.\n\nAmongst the poorer people a marriage is frequently kept secret for\nseveral days. The great pomp and ceremony which with us, and\noccasionally with a few rich Burmese, consecrate a man and a woman to\neach other for life, are absent at the greater number of Burmese\nmarriages; and the reason they tell me is that the girl is shy. She does\nnot like to be stared at, and wondered at, as a maiden about to be a\nwife; it troubles her that the affairs of her heart, her love, her\nmarriage, should be so public. The young men come at night and throw\nstones upon the house roof, and demand presents from the bridegroom. He\ndoes not mind giving the presents; but he, too, does not like the\npublicity. And so marriage, which is with most people a ceremony\nperformed in full daylight with all accessories of display, is with the\nBurmese generally a secret. Two or three friends, perhaps, will be\ncalled quietly to the house, and the man and woman will eat together,\nand thus become husband and wife. Then they will separate again, and not\nfor several days, or even weeks perhaps, will it be known that they are\nmarried; for it is seldom that they can set up house for themselves just\nat once. Often they will marry and live apart for a time with their\nparents. Sometimes they will go and live together with the man's\nparents, but more usually with the girl's mother. Then after a time,\nwhen they have by their exertions made a little money, they build a\nhouse and go to live there; but sometimes they will live on with the\ngirl's parents for years.\n\nA girl does not change her name when she marries, nor does she wear any\nsign of marriage, such as a ring. Her name is always the same, and there\nis nothing to a stranger to denote whether she be married or not, or\nwhose wife she is; and she keeps her property as her own. Marriage does\nnot confer upon the husband any power over his wife's property, either\nwhat she brings with her, what she earns, or what she inherits\nsubsequently; it all remains her own, as does his remain his own. But\nusually property acquired after marriage is held jointly. You will\ninquire, for instance, who is the owner of this garden, and be told\nMaung Han, Ma Shwe, the former being the husband's name and the latter\nthe wife's. Both names are used very frequently in business and in legal\nproceedings, and indeed it is usual for both husband and wife to sign\nall deeds they may have occasion to execute. Nothing more free than a\nwoman's position in the marriage state can be imagined. By law she is\nabsolutely the mistress of her own property and her own self; and if it\nusually happens that the husband is the head of the house, that is\nbecause his nature gives him that position, not any law.\n\nWith us marriage means to a girl an utter breaking of her old ties, the\nbeginning of a new life, of new duties, of new responsibilities. She\ngoes out into a new and unknown world, full of strange facts, leaving\none dependence for another, the shelter of a father for the shelter of a\nhusband. She has even lost her own name, and becomes known but as the\nmistress of her husband; her soul is merged in his. But in Burma it is\nnot so at all. She is still herself, still mistress of herself, an equal\npartner for life.\n\nI have said that the Burmese have no ideals, and this is true; but in\nthe Laws of Manu there are laid down some of the requisite qualities for\na perfect wife. There are seven kinds of wife, say the Laws of Manu: a\nwife like a thief, like an enemy, like a master, like a friend, like a\nsister, like a mother, like a slave. The last four of these are good,\nbut the last is the best, and these are some of her qualities:\n\n'She should fan and soothe her master to sleep, and sit by him near the\nbed on which he lies. She will fear and watch lest anything should\ndisturb him. Every noise will be a terror to her; the hum of a mosquito\nas the blast of a trumpet; the fall of a leaf without will sound as loud\nas thunder. Even she will guard her breath as it passes her lips to and\nfro, lest she awaken him whom she fears.\n\n'And she will remember that when he awakens he will have certain wants.\nShe will be anxious that the bath be to his custom, that his clothes are\nas he wishes, that his food is tasteful to him. Always she will have\nbefore her the fear of his anger.'\n\nIt must be remembered that the Laws of Manu are of Indian origin, and\nare not totally accepted by the Burmese. I fear a Burmese girl would\nlaugh at this ideal of a wife. She would say that if a wife were always\nafraid of her husband's wrath, she and he, too, must be poor things. A\nhousehold is ruled by love and reverence, not by fear. A girl has no\nidea when she marries that she is going to be her husband's slave, but a\nfree woman, yielding to him in those things in which he has most\nstrength, and taking her own way in those things that pertain to a\nwoman. She has a very keen idea of what things she can do best, and what\nthings she should leave to her husband. Long experience has taught her\nthat there are many things she should not interfere with; and she knows\nit is experience that has proved it, and not any command. She knows that\nthe reason women are not supposed to interfere in public affairs is\nbecause their minds and bodies are not fitted for them. Therefore she\naccepts this, in the same way as she accepts physical inferiority, as a\nfact against which it is useless and silly to declaim, knowing that it\nis not men who keep her out, but her own unfitness. Moreover, she knows\nthat it is made good to her in other ways, and thus the balance is\nredressed. You see, she knows her own strength and her own weakness. Can\nthere be a more valuable knowledge for anyone than this?\n\nIn many ways she will act for her husband with vigour and address, and\nshe is not afraid of appearing in his name or her own in law courts, for\ninstance, or in transacting certain kinds of business. She knows that\nshe can do certain business as well as or better than her husband, and\nshe does it. There is nothing more remarkable than the way in which she\nmakes a division of these matters in which she can act for herself, and\nthose in which, if she act at all, it is for her husband.\n\nThus, as I have said, she will, as regards her own property or her own\nbusiness, act freely in her own name, and will also frequently act for\nher husband too. They will both sign deeds, borrow money on joint\nsecurity, lend money repayable to them jointly. But in public affairs\nshe will never allow her name to appear at all. Not that she does not\ntake a keen interest in such things. She lives in no world apart; all\nthat affects her husband interests her as keenly as it does him. She\nlives in a world of men and women, and her knowledge of public affairs,\nand her desire and powers of influencing them, is great. But she learnt\nlong ago that her best way is to act through and by her husband, and\nthat his strength and his name are her bucklers in the fight. Thus women\nare never openly concerned in any political matters. How strong their\nfeeling is can better be illustrated by a story than in any other way.\n\nIn 1889 I was stationed far away on the north-west frontier of Burma, in\ncharge of some four thousand square miles of territory which had been\nnewly incorporated. I went up there with the first column that ever\npenetrated that country, and I remained there when, after the partial\npacification of the district, the main body of the troops were\nwithdrawn. It was a fairly exciting place to live in. To say nothing of\nthe fever which swept down men in batches, and the trans-frontier people\nwho were always peeping over to watch a good opportunity for a raid, my\nown charge simply swarmed with armed men, who seemed to rise out of the\nvery ground--so hard was it to follow their movements--attack anywhere\nthey saw fit, and disappear as suddenly. There was, of course, a\nconsiderable force of troops and police to suppress these insurgents,\nbut the whole country was so roadless, so unexplored, such a tangled\nlabyrinth of hill and forest, dotted with sparse villages, that it was\noften quite impossible to trace the bands who committed these attacks;\nand to the sick and weary pursuers it sometimes seemed as if we should\nnever restore peace to the country.\n\nThe villages were arranged in groups, and over each group there was a\nheadman with certain powers and certain duties, the principal of the\nlatter being to keep his people quiet, and, if possible, protect them\nfrom insurgents.\n\nNow, it happened that among these headmen was one named Saw Ka, who had\nbeen a free-lance in his day, but whose services were now enlisted on\nthe side of order--or, at least, we hoped so. He was a fighting-man, and\nrather fond of that sort of exercise; so that I was not much surprised\none day when I got a letter from him to say that his villagers had\npursued and arrested, after a fight, a number of armed robbers, who had\ntried to lift some of the village cattle. The letter came to me when I\nwas in my court-house, a tent ten feet by eight, trying a case. So,\nsaying I would see Saw Ka's people later, and giving orders for the\nprisoners to be put in the lock-up, I went on with my work. When my case\nwas finished, I happened to notice that among those sitting and waiting\nwithout my tent-door was Saw Ka himself, so I sent to call him in, and I\ncomplimented him upon his success. 'It shall be reported,' I said, 'to\nthe Commissioner, who will, no doubt, reward you for your care and\ndiligence in the public service.'\n\nAs I talked I noticed that the man seemed rather bewildered, and when I\nhad finished he said that he really did not understand. He was aware, he\nadded modestly, that he was a diligent headman, always active in good\ndeeds, and a terror to dacoits and other evil-doers; but as to these\nparticular robbers and this fighting he was a little puzzled.\n\nI was considerably surprised, naturally, and I took from the table the\nBurmese letter describing the affair. It began, 'Your honour, I, Maung\nSaw Ka, headman,' etc., and was in the usual style. I handed it to Saw\nKa, and told him to read it. As he read, his wicked black eyes twinkled,\nand when he had finished he said he had not been home for a week.\n\n'I came in from a visit to the river,' he said, 'where I have gathered\nfor your honour some private information. I had not been here five\nminutes before I was called in. All this the letter speaks of is news to\nme, and must have happened while I was away.'\n\n'Then, who wrote the letter?' I asked.\n\n'Ah!' he said, 'I think I know; but I will go and make sure.'\n\nThen Saw Ka went to find the guard who had come in with the prisoners,\nand I dissolved court and went out shooting. After dinner, as we sat\nround a great bonfire before the mess, for the nights were cold, Saw Ka\nand his brother came to me, and they sat down beside the fire and told\nme all about it.\n\nIt appeared that three days after Saw Ka left his village, some robbers\ncame suddenly one evening to a small hamlet some two miles away and\nlooted from there all the cattle, thirty or forty head, and went off\nwith them. The frightened owners came in to tell the headman about it,\nand in his absence they told his wife. And she, by virtue of the order\nof appointment as headman, which was in her hands, ordered the villagers\nto turn out and follow the dacoits. She issued such government arms as\nshe had in the house, and the villagers went and pursued the dacoits by\nthe cattle tracks, and next day they overtook them, and there was a\nfight. When the villagers returned with the cattle and the thieves, she\nhad the letter written to me, and the prisoners were sent in, under her\nhusband's brother, with an escort. Everything was done as well, as\nsuccessfully, as if Saw Ka himself had been present. But if it had not\nbeen for the accident of Saw Ka's sudden appearance, I should probably\nnever have known that this exploit was due to his wife; for she was\nacting for her husband, and she would not have been pleased that her\nname should appear.\n\n'A good wife,' I said to Saw Ka.\n\n'Like many,' he answered.\n\nBut in her own line she has no objection to publicity. I have said that\nnearly all women work, and that is so. Married or unmarried, from the\nage of sixteen or seventeen, almost every woman has some occupation\nbesides her own duties. In the higher classes she will have property of\nher own to manage; in the lower classes she will have some trade. I\ncannot find that in Burma there have ever been certain occupations told\noff for women in which they may work, and others tabooed to them. As\nthere is no caste for the men, so there is none for the women. They have\nbeen free to try their hands at anything they thought they could excel\nin, without any fear of public opinion. But nevertheless, as is\ninevitable, it has been found that there are certain trades in which\nwomen can compete successfully with men, and certain others in which\nthey cannot. And these are not quite the same as in the West. We usually\nconsider sewing to be a feminine occupation. In Burma, there being no\nelaborately cut and trimmed garments, the amount of sewing done is\nsmall, but that is usually done by men. Women often own and use small\nhand-machines, but the treadles are always used by men only. As I am\nwriting, my Burmese orderly is sitting in the garden sewing his jacket.\nHe is usually sewing when not sent on messages. He seems to sew very\nwell.\n\nWeaving is usually done by women. Under nearly every house there will be\na loom, where the wife or daughter weaves for herself or for sale. But\nmany men weave also, and the finest silks are all woven by men. I once\nasked a woman why they did not weave the best silks, instead of leaving\nthem all to the men.\n\n'Men do them better,' she said, with a laugh. 'I tried once, but I\ncannot manage that embroidery.'\n\nThey also work in the fields--light work, such as weeding and planting.\nThe heavy work, such as ploughing, is done by men. They also work on the\nroads carrying things, as all Oriental women do. It is curious that\nwomen carry always on their heads, men always on their shoulders. I do\nnot know why.\n\nBut the great occupation of women is petty trading. I have already said\nthat there are few large merchants among the Burmese. Nearly all the\nretail trade is small, most of it is very small indeed, and practically\nthe whole of it is in the hands of the women.\n\nWomen do not often succeed in any wholesale trade. They have not, I\nthink, a wide enough grasp of affairs for that. Their views are always\nsomewhat limited; they are too pennywise and pound-foolish for big\nbusinesses. The small retail trade, gaining a penny here and a penny\nthere, just suits them, and they have almost made it a close profession.\n\nThis trade is almost exclusively done in bazaars. In every town there is\na bazaar, from six till ten each morning. When there is no town near,\nthe bazaar will be held on one day at one village and on another at a\nneighbouring one. It depends on the density of population, the means of\ncommunication, and other matters. But a bazaar within reach there must\nalways be, for it is only there that most articles can be bought. The\nbazaar is usually held in a public building erected for the purpose, and\nthis may vary from a great market built of brick and iron to a small\nthatched shed. Sometimes, indeed, there is no building at all, merely a\nspace of beaten ground.\n\nThe great bazaar in Mandalay is one of the sights of the city. The\nbuilding in which it is held is the property of the municipality, but is\nleased out. It is a series of enormous sheds, with iron roofs and beaten\nearth floor. Each trade has a shed or sheds to itself. There is a place\nfor rice-sellers, for butchers, for vegetable-sellers, for the vendors\nof silks, of cottons, of sugars and spices, of firewood, of jars, of\nfish. The butchers are all natives of India. I have explained elsewhere\nwhy this should be. The firewood-sellers will mostly be men, as will\nalso the large rice-merchants, but nearly all the rest are women.\n\nYou will find the sellers of spices, fruit, vegetables, and other such\nmatters seated in long rows, on mats placed upon the ground. Each will\nhave a square of space allotted, perhaps six feet square, and there she\nwill sit with her merchandise in a basket or baskets before her. For\neach square they will pay the lessee a halfpenny for the day, which is\nonly three hours or so. The time to go is in the morning from six till\neight, for that is the busy time. Later on all the stalls will be\nclosed, but in the early morning the market is thronged. Every\nhouseholder is then buying his or her provisions for the day, and the\npeople crowd in thousands round the sellers. Everyone is bargaining and\nchaffing and laughing, both buyers and sellers; but both are very keen,\ntoo, on business.\n\nThe cloth and silk sellers, the large rice-merchants, and a few other\ntraders, cannot carry on business sitting on a mat, nor can they carry\ntheir wares to and fro every day in a basket. For such there are\nseparate buildings or separate aisles, with wooden stalls, on either\nside of a gangway. The wooden floor of the stalls is raised two to three\nfeet, so that the buyer, standing on the ground, is about on a level\nwith the seller sitting in the stall. The stall will be about eight feet\nby ten, and each has at the back a strong lock-up cupboard or wardrobe,\nwhere the wares are shut at night; but in the day they will be taken out\nand arranged daintily about the girl-seller. Home-made silks are the\nstaple--silks in checks of pink and white, of yellow and orange, of\nindigo and dark red. Some are embroidered in silk, in silver, or in\ngold; some are plain. All are thick and rich, none are glazed, and none\nare gaudy. There will also be silks from Bangkok, which are of two\ncolours--purple shot with red, and orange shot with red, both very\nbeautiful. All the silks are woven the size of the dress: for men, about\ntwenty-eight feet long and twenty inches broad; and for women, about\nfive feet long and much broader. Thus, there is no cutting off the\npiece. The _anas_, too, which are the bottom pieces for a woman's dress,\nare woven the proper size. There will probably, too, be piles of showy\ncambric jackets and gauzy silk handkerchiefs; but often these are sold\nat separate stalls.\n\nBut prettier than the silks are the sellers, for these are nearly all\ngirls and women, sweet and fresh in their white jackets, with flowers in\ntheir hair. And they are all delighted to talk to you and show you their\ngoods, even if you do not buy; and they will take a compliment sedately,\nas a girl should, and they will probably charge you an extra rupee for\nit when you come to pay for your purchases. So it is never wise for a\nman, unless he have a heart of stone, to go marketing for silks. He\nshould always ask a lady friend to go with him and do the bargaining,\nand he will lose no courtesy thereby, for these women know how to be\ncourteous to fellow-women as well as to fellow-men.\n\nIn the provincial bazaars it is much the same. There may be a few\ntravelling merchants from Rangoon or Mandalay, most of whom are men; but\nnearly all the retailers are women. Indeed, speaking broadly, it may be\nsaid that the retail trade of the country is in the hands of the women,\nand they nearly all trade on their own account. Just as the men farm\ntheir own land, the women own their businesses. They are not saleswomen\nfor others, but traders on their own account; and with the exception of\nthe silk and cloth branches of the trade, it does not interfere with\nhome-life. The bazaar lasts but three hours, and a woman has ample time\nfor her home duties when her daily visit to the bazaar is over; she is\nnever kept away all day in shops and factories.\n\nHer home-life is always the centre of her life; she could not neglect it\nfor any other: it would seem to her a losing of the greater in the less.\nBut the effect of this custom of nearly every woman having a little\nbusiness of her own has a great influence on her life. It broadens her\nviews; it teaches her things she could not learn in the narrow circle of\nhome duties; it gives her that tolerance and understanding which so\nforcibly strikes everyone who knows her. It teaches her to know her own\nstrength and weakness, and how to make the best of each. Above all, by\nshowing her the real life about her, and how much beauty there is\neverywhere, to those whose eyes are not shut by conventions, it saves\nher from that dreary, weary pessimism that seeks its relief in fancied\nidealism, in a smattering of art, of literature, or of religion, and\nwhich is the curse of so many of her sisters in other lands.\n\nAnd yet, with all their freedom, Burmese women are very particular in\ntheir conduct. Do not imagine that young girls are allowed, or allow\nthemselves, to go about alone except on very frequented roads. I suppose\nthere are certain limits in all countries to the freedom a woman allows\nherself, that is to say, if she is wise. For she knows that she cannot\nalways trust herself; she knows that she is weak sometimes, and she\nprotects herself accordingly. She is timid, with a delightful timidity\nthat fears, because it half understands; she is brave, with the bravery\nof a girl who knows that as long as she keeps within certain limits she\nis safe. Do not suppose that they ever do, or ever can, allow themselves\nthat freedom of action that men have; it is an impossibility. Girls are\nvery carefully looked after by their mothers, and wives by their\nhusbands; and they delight in observing the limits which experience has\nindicated to them. There is a funny story which will illustrate what I\nmean. A great friend of mine, an officer in Government service, went\nhome not very long ago and married, and came out again to Burma with his\nwife. They settled down in a little up-country station. His duties were\nsuch as obliged him to go very frequently on tour far away from his\nhome, and he would be absent ten days at a time or more. So when it came\nfor the first time that he was obliged to go out and leave his wife\nbehind him alone in the house, he gave his head-servant very careful\ndirections. This servant was a Burman who had been with him for many\nyears, who knew all his ways, and who was a very good servant. He did\nnot speak English; and my friend gave him strict orders.\n\n'The mistress,' he said, 'has only just come here to Burma, and she\ndoes not know the ways of the country, nor what to do. So you must see\nthat no harm comes to her in any way while I am in the jungle.'\n\nThen he gave directions as to what was to be done in any eventuality,\nand he went out.\n\nHe was away for about a fortnight, and when he returned he found all\nwell. The house had not caught fire, nor had thieves stolen anything,\nnor had there been any difficulty at all. The servant had looked after\nthe other servants well, and my friend was well pleased. But his wife\ncomplained.\n\n'It has been very dull,' she said, 'while you were away. No one came to\nsee me; of all the officers here, not one ever called. I saw only two or\nthree ladies, but not a man at all.'\n\nAnd my friend, surprised, asked his servant how it was.\n\n'Didn't anyone come to call?' he asked.\n\n'Oh yes,' the servant answered; 'many gentlemen came to call--the\nofficers of the regiment and others. But I told them the thakin was out,\nand that the thakinma could not see anyone. I sent them all away.'\n\nAt the club that evening my friend was questioned as to why in his\nabsence no one was allowed to see his wife. The whole station laughed at\nhim, but I think he and his wife laughed most of all at the careful\nobservances of Burmese etiquette by the servant; for it is the Burmese\ncustom for a wife not to receive in her husband's absence. Anyone who\nwants to see her must stay outside or in the veranda, and she will come\nout and speak to him. It would be a grave breach of decorum to receive\nvisitors while her husband is out.\n\nSo even a Burmese woman is not free from restrictions--restrictions\nwhich are merely rules founded upon experience. No woman, no man, can\never free herself or himself from the bonds that even a young\ncivilization demands. A freedom from all restraint would be a return,\nnot only to savagery, but to the condition of animals--nay, even animals\nare bound by certain conventions.\n\nThe higher a civilization, the more conventions are required; and\nfreedom does not mean an absence of all rules, but that all rules should\nbe founded on experience and common-sense.\n\nThere are certain restrictions on a woman's actions which must be\nobserved as long as men are men and women women. That the Burmese woman\nnever recognises them unless they are necessary, and then accepts the\nnecessity as a necessity, is the fact wherein her freedom lies. If at\nany time she should recognise that a restriction was unnecessary, she\nwould reject it. If experience told her further restrictions were\nrequired, she would accept them without a doubt.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nWOMEN--III\n\n     'For women are very tender-hearted.'\n                                       _Wethandaya._\n\n\n'You know, thakin,' said a man to me, 'that we say sometimes that women\ncannot attain unto the great deliverance, that only men will come there.\nWe think that a woman must be born again as a man before she can enter\nupon the way that leads to heaven.'\n\n'Why should that be so?' I asked. 'I have looked at the life of the\nBuddha, I have read the sacred books, and I can find nothing about it.\nWhat makes you think that?'\n\nHe explained it in this way: 'Before a soul can attain deliverance it\nmust renounce the world, it must have purified itself by wisdom and\nmeditation from all the lust of the flesh. Only those who have done this\ncan enter into the Great Peace. Many men do this. The country is full of\nmonks, men who have left the world, and are trying to follow in the path\nof the great teacher. Not all these will immediately attain to heaven,\nfor purification is a very long process; but they have entered into the\npath, they have seen the light, if it be even a long way off yet. They\nknow whither they would go. But women, see how few become nuns! Only\nthose who have suffered such shipwreck in life that this world holds\nnothing more for them worth having become nuns. And they are very few.\nFor a hundred monks there is not one nun. Women are too attached to\ntheir home, to their fathers, their husbands, their children, to enter\ninto the holy life; and, therefore, how shall they come to heaven except\nthey return as men? Our teacher says nothing about it, but we have eyes,\nand we can see.'\n\nAll this is true. Women have no desire for the holy life. They cannot\ntear themselves away from their home-life. If their passions are less\nthan those of men, they have even less command over them than men have.\nOnly the profoundest despair will drive a woman to a renunciation of the\nworld. If on an average their lives are purer than those of men, they\ncannot rise to the heights to which men can. How many monks there\nare--how few nuns! Not one to a hundred.\n\nYet in some ways women are far more religious than men. If you go to the\ngolden pagoda on the hilltop and count the people kneeling there doing\nhonour to the teacher, you will find they are nearly all women. If you\ngo to the rest-houses by the monastery, where the monks recite the law\non Sundays, you will find that the congregations are nearly all women.\nIf you visit the monastery without the gate, you will see many visitors\nbringing little presents, and they will be women.\n\n'Thakin, many men do not care for religion at all, but when a man does\ndo so, he takes it very seriously. He follows it out to the end. He\nbecomes a monk, and surrenders the whole world. But with women it is\ndifferent. Many women, nearly all women, will like religion, and none\nwill take it seriously. We mix it up with our home-life, and our\naffections, and our worldly doings; for we like a little of everything.'\nSo said a woman to me.\n\nIs this always true? I do not know, but it is very true in Burma. Nearly\nall the women are religious, they like to go to the monastery and hear\nthe law, they like to give presents to the monks, they like to visit the\npagoda and adore Gaudama the Buddha. I am sure that if it were not for\ntheir influence the laws against taking life and against intoxicants\nwould not be observed as stringently as they are. So far they will go.\nAs far as they can use the precepts of religion and retain their\nhome-life they will do so; as it was with Yathodaya so long ago, so it\nis now. But when religion calls them and says, 'Come away from the\nworld, leave all that you love, all that your heart holds good, for it\nis naught; see the light, and prepare your soul for peace,' they hold\nback. This they cannot do; it is far beyond them. 'Thakin, we _cannot do\nso_. It would seem to us terrible,' that is what they say.\n\nA man who renounces the world is called 'the great glory,' but not so a\nwoman.\n\nI have said that the Buddhist religion holds men and women as equal. If\nwomen can observe its laws as men do, it is surely their own fault if\nthey be held the less worthy.\n\nWomen themselves admit this. They honour a man greatly who becomes a\nmonk, not so a nun. Nuns have but little consideration. And why? Because\nwhat is good for a man is not good for a woman; and if, indeed,\nrenunciation of the world be the only path to the Great Peace, then\nsurely it must be true that women must be born again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nDIVORCE\n\n     'They are to each other as a burning poison falling into a man's\n     eye.'--_Burmese saying._\n\n\nI remember a night not so long ago; it was in the hot weather, and I was\nout in camp with my friend the police-officer. It was past sunset, and\nthe air beneath the trees was full of luminous gloom, though overhead a\nflush still lingered on the cheek of the night. We were sitting in the\nveranda of a Government rest-house, enjoying the first coolness of the\ncoming night, and talking in disjointed sentences of many things; and\nthere came up the steps of the house into the veranda a woman. She came\nforward slowly, and then sat down on the floor beside my friend, and\nbegan to speak. There was a lamp burning in an inner room, and a long\nbar of light came through the door and lit her face. I could see she was\nnot good-looking, but that her eyes were full of tears, and her face\ndrawn with trouble. I recognised who she was, the wife of the\nhead-constable in charge of the guard near by, a woman I had noticed\nonce or twice in the guard.\n\nShe spoke so fast, so fast; the words fell over each other as they came\nfrom her lips, for her heart was very full.\n\nI sat quite still and said nothing; I think she hardly noticed I was\nthere. It was all about her husband. Everything was wrong; all had gone\ncrooked in their lives, and she did not know what she could do. At first\nshe could hardly tell what it was all about, but at last she explained.\nFor some years, three or four years, matters had not been very smooth\nbetween them. They had quarrelled often, she said, about this thing and\nthe other, little things mostly; and gradually the rift had widened till\nit became very broad indeed.\n\n'Perhaps,' she said, 'if I had been able to have a child it would have\nbeen different.' But fate was unkind and no baby came, and her husband\nbecame more and more angry with her. 'And yet I did all for the best,\nthakin; I always tried to act for the best. My husband has sisters at\nHenzada, and they write to him now and then, and say, \"Send ten rupees,\"\nor \"Send five rupees,\" or even twenty rupees. And I always say, \"Send,\nsend.\" Other wives would say, \"No, we cannot afford it;\" but I said\nalways, \"Send, send.\" I have always done for the best, always for the\nbest.'\n\nIt was very pitiable to hear her opening her whole heart, such a sore\ntroubled heart, like this. Her words were full of pathos; her uncomely\nface was not beautified by the sorrow in it. And at last her husband\ntook a second wife.\n\n'She is a girl from a village near; the thakin knows, Taungywa. He did\nnot tell me, but I soon heard of it; and although I thought my heart\nwould break, I did not say anything. I told my husband, \"Bring her here,\nlet us live all together; it will be best so.\" I always did for the\nbest, thakin. So he brought her, and she came to live with us a week\nago. Ah, thakin, I did not know! She tramples on me. My head is under\nher feet. My husband does not care for me, only for her. And to-day,\nthis evening, they went out together for a walk, and my husband took\nwith him the concertina. As they went I could hear him play upon it, and\nthey walked down through the trees, he playing and she leaning upon him.\nI heard the music.'\n\nThen she began to cry bitterly, sobbing as if her heart would break. The\nsunset died out of the sky, and the shadows took all the world and made\nit gray and dark. No one said anything, only the woman cried.\n\n'Thakin,' she said at last, 'what am I to do? Tell me.'\n\nThen my friend spoke.\n\n'You can divorce him,' he said; 'you can go to the elders and get a\ndivorce. Won't that be best?'\n\n'But, thakin, you do not know. We are both Christians; we are married\nfor ever. We were both at the mission-school in Rangoon, and we were\nmarried there, \"for ever and for ever,\" so the padre said. We are not\nmarried according to Burmese customs, but according to your religion; we\nare husband and wife for ever.'\n\nMy friend said nothing. It seemed to him useless to speak to her of the\nHigh Court, five hundred miles away, and a decree nisi; it would have\nbeen a mockery of her trouble.\n\n'Your husband had no right to take a second wife, if you are Christians\nand married,' he said.\n\n'Ah,' she answered, 'we are Burmans; it is allowed by Burmese law. Other\nofficials do it. What does my husband care that we were married by your\nlaw? Here we are alone with no other Christians near. But I would not\nmind so much,' she went on, 'only she treads me under her feet. And he\ntakes her out and not me, who am the elder wife, and he plays music to\nher; and I did all for the best. This trouble has come upon me, though\nall my life I have acted for the best.'\n\nThere came another footstep up the stair, and a man entered. It was her\nhusband. On his return he had missed his wife, and guessed whither she\nhad gone, and had followed her. He came alone.\n\nThen there was a sad scene, only restrained by respect for my friend. I\nneed not tell it. There was a man's side to the question, a strong one.\nThe wife had a terrible temper, a peevish, nagging, maddening fashion\nof talking. She was a woman very hard for a man to live with.\n\nDoes it matter much which was right or wrong, now that the mischief was\ndone? They went away at last, not reconciled. Could they be reconciled?\nI cannot tell. I left there next day, and have never returned.\n\nThere they had lived for many years among their own people, far away\nfrom the influence that had come upon their childhood, and led them into\nstrange ways. And now all that was left of that influence was the chain\nthat bound them together. Had it not been for that they would have been\ndivorced long ago; for they had never agreed very well, and both sides\nhad bitter grounds for complaint. They would have been divorced, and\nboth could have gone their own way. But now, what was to be done?\n\nThat is one of my memories: this is another.\n\nThere was a girl I knew, the daughter of a man who had made some money\nby trading, and when the father died the property was divided according\nto law between the girl and her brother. She was a little heiress in her\nway, owning a garden, where grew many fruit-trees, and a piece of rice\nland. She had also a share in a little shop which she managed, and she\nhad many gold bracelets and fine diamond earrings. She was much wooed by\nthe young men about there, and at last she married. He was a young man,\ngood-looking, a sergeant of police, and for a time they were very\nhappy. And then trouble came. The husband took to bad ways. The\nknowledge that he could get money for nothing was too much for him. He\ndrank and he wasted her money, and he neglected his work, and at last he\nwas dismissed from Government employ. And his wife got angry with him,\nand complained of him to the neighbours; and made him worse, though she\nwas at heart a good girl. Quickly he went from bad to worse, until in a\nvery short time, six months, I think, he had spent half her little\nfortune. Then she began to limit supplies--the husband did no work at\nall--and in consequence he began to neglect her; they had many quarrels,\nand her tongue was sharp, and matters got worse and worse until they\nwere the talk of the village. All attempts of the headman and elders to\nrestrain him were useless. He became quarrelsome, and went on from one\nthing to another, until at last he was suspected of being concerned in a\ncrime. So then when all means had failed to restore her husband to her,\nwhen they had drifted far apart and there was nothing before them but\ntrouble, she went to the elders of the village and demanded a divorce.\nAnd the elders granted it to her. Her husband objected; he did not want\nto be divorced. He claimed this, and he claimed that, but it was all of\nno use. So the tie that had united them was dissolved, as the love had\nbeen dissolved long before, and they parted. The man went away to Lower\nBurma. They tell me he has become a cultivator and has reformed, and is\ndoing well; and the girl is ready to marry again. Half her property is\ngone, but half remains, and she has still her little business. I think\nthey will both do well. But if they had been chained together, what\nthen?\n\nIn Burma divorce is free. Anyone can obtain it by appearing before the\nelders of the village and demanding it. A writing of divorcement is made\nout, and the parties are free. Each retains his or her own property, and\nthat earned during marriage is divided; only that the party claiming the\ndivorce has to leave the house to the other--that is the only penalty,\nand it is not always enforced, unless the house be joint property.\n\nAs religion has nothing to do with marriage, neither has it with\ndivorce. Marriage is a status, a partnership, nothing more. But it is\nall that. Divorce is a dissolution of that partnership. A Burman would\nnot ask, 'Were they married?' but, 'Are they man and wife?' And so with\ndivorce, it is a cessation of the state of marriage.\n\nElders tell me that women ask for divorce far more than men do. 'Men\nhave patience, and women have not,' that is what they say. For every\nlittle quarrel a woman will want a divorce. 'Thakin, if we were to grant\ndivorces every time a woman came and demanded it, we should be doing\nnothing else all day long. If a husband comes home to find dinner not\ncooked, and speaks angrily, his wife will rush to us in tears for a\ndivorce. If he speaks to another woman and smiles, if he does not give\nhis wife a new dress, if he be fond of going out in the evenings, all\nthese are reasons for a breathless demand for a divorce. The wives get\ncross and run to us and cry, \"My husband has been angry with me. Never\nwill I live with him again. Give me a divorce.\" Or, \"See my clothes, how\nold they are. I cannot buy any new dress. I will have a divorce.\" And we\nsay, \"Yes, yes; it is very sad. Of course, you must have a divorce; but\nwe cannot give you one to-night. Go away, and come again in three days\nor in four days, when we have more time.\" They go away, thakin, and they\ndo not return. Next day it is all forgotten. You see, they don't know\nwhat they want; they turn with the wind--they have no patience.'\n\nYet sometimes they repent too late. Here is another of my memories about\ndivorce:\n\nThere was a man and his wife, cultivators, living in a small village.\nThe land that he cultivated belonged to his wife, for she had inherited\nit from her father, together with a house and a little money. The man\nhad nothing when he married her, but he was hardworking and honest and\ngood-tempered, and they kept themselves going comfortably enough. But he\nhad one fault: every now and then he would drink too much. This was in\nLower Burma, where liquor shops are free to Burmans. In Upper Burma no\nliquor can be sold to them. He did not drink often. He was a teetotaler\ngenerally; but once a month, or once in two months, he would meet some\nfriends, and they would drink in good fellowship, and he would return\nhome drunk. His wife felt this very bitterly, and when he would come\ninto the house, his eyes red and his face swollen, she would attack him\nwith bitter words, as women do. She would upbraid him for his conduct,\nshe would point at him the finger of scorn, she would tell him in biting\nwords that he was drinking the produce of her fields, of her\ninheritance; she would even impute to him, in her passion, worse things\nthan these, things that were not true. And the husband was usually\ngood-natured, and admitted his wrong, and put up with all her abuse, and\nthey lived more or less happily till the next time.\n\nAnd after this had been going on for a few years, instead of getting\naccustomed to her husband, instead of seeing that if he had this fault\nhe had many virtues, and that he was just as good a husband as she was a\nwife, or perhaps better, her anger against him increased every time,\ntill now she would declare that she would abide it no longer, that he\nwas past endurance, and she would have a divorce; and several times she\neven ran to the elders to demand it. But the elders would put it by.\n'Let it wait,' they said, 'for a few days, and then we will see;' and by\nthat time all was soothed down again. But at last the end came. One\nnight she passed all bounds in her anger, using words that could never\nbe forgiven; and when she declared as usual that she must have a\ndivorce, her husband said: 'Yes, we will divorce. Let there be an end of\nit.' And so next day they went to the elders both of them, and as both\ndemanded the divorce, the elders could not delay very long. A few days'\ndelay they made, but the man was firm, and at last it was done. They\nwere divorced. I think the woman would have drawn back at the last\nmoment, but she could not, for very shame, and the man never wavered. He\nwas offended past forgiveness.\n\nSo the divorce was given, and the man left the house and went to live\nelsewhere.\n\nIn a few days--a very few days--the wife sent for him again. 'Would he\nreturn?' And he refused. Then she went to the headman and asked him to\nmake it up, and the headman sent for the husband, who came.\n\nThe woman asked her husband to return.\n\n'Come back,' she said, 'come back. I have been wrong. Let us forgive. It\nshall never happen again.'\n\nBut the man shook his head.\n\n'No,' he said; 'a divorce is a divorce. I do not care to marry and\ndivorce once a week. You were always saying \"I will divorce you, I will\ndivorce you.\" Now it is done. Let it remain.'\n\nThe woman was struck with grief.\n\n'But I did not know,' she said; 'I was hot-tempered. I was foolish. But\nnow I know. Ah! the house is so lonely! I have but two ears, I have but\ntwo eyes, and the house is so large.'\n\nBut the husband refused again.\n\n'What is done, is done. Marriage is not to be taken off and put on like\na jacket. I have made up my mind.'\n\nThen he went away, and after a little the woman went away too. She went\nstraight to the big, lonely house, and there she hanged herself.\n\nYou see, she loved him all the time, but did not know till too late.\n\nMen do not often apply for divorce except for very good cause, and with\ntheir minds fully made up to obtain it. They do obtain it, of course.\n\nWith this facility for divorce, it is remarkable how uncommon it is. In\nthe villages and amongst respectable Burmans in all classes of life it\nis a great exception to divorce or to be divorced. The only class\namongst whom it is at all common is the class of hangers-on to our\nAdministration, the clerks and policemen, and so on. I fear there is\nlittle that is good to be said of many of them. It is terrible to see\nhow demoralizing our contact is to all sorts and conditions of men. To\nbe attached to our Administration is almost a stigma of\ndisreputableness. I remember remarking once to a headman that a certain\nofficial seemed to be quite regardless of public opinion in his life,\nand asked him if the villagers did not condemn him. And the headman\nanswered with surprise: 'But he is an official;' as if officials were\nquite _super grammaticam_ of morals.\n\nAnd yet this is the class from whom we most of us obtain our knowledge\nof Burmese life, whom we see most of, whose opinions we accept as\nreflecting the truth of Burmese thought. No wonder we are so often\nastray.\n\nAmongst these, the taking of second, and even third, wives is not at all\nuncommon, and naturally divorce often follows. Among the great mass of\nthe people it is very uncommon. I cannot give any figures. There are no\nrecords kept of marriage or of divorce. What the proportion is it is\nimpossible to even guess. I have heard all sorts of estimates, none\nfounded on more than imagination. I have even tried to find out in small\nvillages what the number of divorces were in a year, and tried to\nestimate from this the percentage. I made it from 2 to 5 per cent. of\nthe marriages. But I cannot offer these figures as correct for any large\narea. Probably they vary from place to place and from year to year. In\nthe old time the queen was very strict upon the point. As she would\nallow no other wife to her king, so she would allow no taking of other\nwives, no abuse of divorce among her subjects. Whatever her influence\nmay have been in other ways, here it was all for good. But the queen has\ngone, and there is no one left at all. No one but the hangers-on of whom\nI have spoken, examples not to be followed, but to be shunned.\n\nBut of this there is no manner of doubt, that this freedom of marriage\nand divorce leads to no license. There is no confusion between marriage\nor non-marriage, and even yet public opinion is a very great check upon\ndivorce. It is considered not right to divorce your husband or your wife\nwithout good--very good and sufficient cause. And what is good and\nsufficient cause is very well understood. That a woman should have a\nnagging tongue, that a man should be a drunkard, what could be better\ncause than this? The gravity of the offence lies in whether it makes\nlife unbearable together, not in the name you may give it.\n\nThe facility for divorce has other effects too. It makes a man and a\nwoman very careful in their behaviour to each other. The chain that\nbinds them is a chain of mutual forbearance, of mutual endurance, of\nmutual love; and if these be broken, then is the bond gone. Marriage is\nno fetter about a man or woman, binding both to that which they may get\nto hate.\n\nIn the first Burmese war in 1825 there was a man, an Englishman, taken\nprisoner in Ava and put in prison, and there he found certain Europeans\nand Americans. After a time, for fear of attempts at escape, these\nprisoners were chained together two and two. He tells you, this\nEnglishman, how terrible this was, and of the hate and repulsion that\narose in your heart to your co-bondsman. Before they were chained\ntogether they lived in close neighbourhood, in peace and amity; but\nwhen the chains came it was far otherwise, though they were no nearer\nthan before. They got to hate each other.\n\nAnd this is the Burmese idea of marriage, that it is a partnership of\nlove and affection, and that when these die, all should be over. An\nunbreakable marriage appears to them as a fetter, a bond, something\nhateful and hate inspiring. They are a people who love to be free: they\nhate bonds and dogmas of every description. It is always religion that\nhas made a bond of marriage, and here religion has not interfered.\nTheirs is a religion of free men and free women.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nDRINK\n\n     'The ignorant commit sins in consequence of drunkenness, and also\n     make others drunk.'--_Acceptance into the Monkhood._\n\n\nThe Buddhist religion forbids the use of all stimulants, including opium\nand other drugs; and in the times of the Burmese rule this law was\nstringently kept. No one was allowed to make, to sell, or to consume,\nliquors of any description. That this law was kept as firmly as it was\nwas due, not to the vigilance of the officials, but to the general\nfeeling of the people. It was a law springing from within, and therefore\neffectual; not imposed from without, and useless. That there were\nbreaches and evasions of the law is only natural. The craving for some\nstimulant amongst all people is very great--so great as to have forced\nitself to be acknowledged and regulated by most states, and made a great\nsource of revenue. Amongst the Burmans the craving is, I should say, as\nstrong as amongst other people; and no mere legal prohibition would have\nhad much effect in a country like this, full of jungle, where palms grow\nin profusion, and where little stills might be set up anywhere to\ndistil their juice. But the feelings of the respectable people and the\ninfluence of the monks is very great, very strong; and the Burmans were,\nand in Upper Burma, where the old laws remain in force, are still, an\nabsolutely teetotal people. No one who was in Upper Burma before and\njust after the war but knows how strictly the prohibition against liquor\nwas enforced. The principal offenders against the law were the high\nofficials, because they were above popular reach. No bribe was so\ngratefully accepted as some whisky. It was a sure step to safety in\ntrouble.\n\nA gentleman--not an Englishman--in the employ of a company who traded in\nUpper Burma in the king's time told me lately a story about this.\n\nHe lived in a town on the Irrawaddy, where was a local governor, and\nthis governor had a head clerk. This head clerk had a wife, and she was,\nI am told, very beautiful. I cannot write scandal, and so will not\nrepeat here what I have heard about this lady and the merchant; but one\nday his Burman servant rushed into his presence and told him\nbreathlessly that the bailiff of the governor's court was just entering\nthe garden with a warrant for his arrest, for, let us say, undue\nflirtation. The merchant, horrified at the prospect of being lodged in\ngaol and put in stocks, fled precipitately out of the back-gate and\ngained the governor's court. The governor was in session, seated on a\nlittle dais, and the merchant ran in and knelt down, as is the custom,\nin front of the dais. He began to hurriedly address the governor:\n\n'My lord, my lord, an unjust complaint has been made against me. Someone\nhas abused your justice and caused a warrant to be taken out against me.\nI have just escaped the bailiff, and came to your honour for protection.\nIt is all a mistake. I will explain. I----'\n\nBut here the governor interposed. He bent forward till his head was\nclose to the merchant's head, and whispered:\n\n'Friend, have you any whisky?'\n\nThe merchant gave a sigh of relief.\n\n'A case newly arrived is at your honour's disposal,' he answered\nquickly. 'I will give orders for it to be sent over at once. No, two\ncases--I have two. And this charge is all a mistake.'\n\nThe governor waved his hand as if all explanation were superfluous. Then\nhe drew himself up, and, addressing the officials and crowd before him,\nsaid:\n\n'This is my good friend. Let no one touch him.' And in an undertone to\nthe merchant: 'Send it soon.'\n\nSo the merchant went home rejoicing, and sent the whisky. And the lady?\nWell, my story ends there with the governor and the whisky. No doubt it\nwas all a mistake about the lady, as the merchant said. All officials\nwere not so bad as this, and many officials were as strongly against\nthe use of liquor, as urgent in the maintenance of the rules of the\nreligion, as the lowest peasant.\n\nIt was the same with opium: its use was absolutely prohibited. Of\ncourse, Chinese merchants managed to smuggle enough in for their own\nuse, but they had to bribe heavily to be able to do so, and the people\nremained uncontaminated. 'Opium-eater,' 'gambler,' are the two great\nterms of reproach and contempt.\n\nIt used to be a custom in the war-time--it has died out now, I\nthink--for officers of all kinds to offer to Burmans who came to see\nthem--officials, I mean--a drink of whisky or beer on parting, just as\nyou would to an Englishman. It was often accepted. Burmans are, as I\nhave said, very fond of liquor, and an opportunity like this to indulge\nin a little forbidden drink, under the encouragement of the great\nEnglish soldier or official, was too much for them. Besides, it would\nhave been a discourtesy to refuse. And so it was generally accepted. I\ndo not think it did much harm to anyone, or to anything, except,\nperhaps, to our reputation.\n\nI remember in 1887 that I went up into a semi-independent state to see\nthe prince. I travelled up with two of his officials, men whom I had\nseen a good deal of for some months before, as his messengers and\nspokesmen, about affairs on the border. We travelled for three days, and\ncame at last to where he had pitched his camp in the forest. He had\nbuilt me a house, too, next to his camp, where I put up. I had a long\ninterview with him about official matters--I need not tell of that\nhere--and after our business was over we talked of many things, and at\nlast I got up to take my leave. I had seen towards the end that the\nprince had something on his mind, something he wanted to say, but was\nafraid, or too shy, to mention; and when I got up, instead of moving\naway, I laughed and said:\n\n'Well, what is it? I think there is something the prince wants to say\nbefore I go.'\n\nAnd the prince smiled back awkwardly, still desirous to have his say,\nstill clearly afraid to do so, and at last it was his wife who spoke.\n\n'It is about the whisky,' she said. 'We know that you drink it. That is\nyour own business. We hear, too, that it is the custom in the part of\nthe country you have taken for English officers to give whisky and beer\nto officials who come to see you--to _our_ officials,' and she looked at\nthe men who had come up with me, and they blushed. 'The prince wishes to\nask you not to do it here. Of course, in your own country you do what\nyou like, but in the prince's country no one is allowed to drink or to\nsmoke opium. It is against our faith. That is what the prince wanted to\nsay. The thakin will not be offended if he is asked that here in our\ncountry he will not tempt any of us to break our religion.'\n\nI almost wished I had not encouraged the prince to speak. I am afraid\nthat the embarrassment passed over to my side. What could I say but that\nI would remember, that I was not offended, but would be careful? I had\nbeen lecturing the prince about his shortcomings; I had been warning him\nof trouble to come, unless he mended his ways; I had been telling him\nwonderful things of Europe and our power. I thought that I had produced\nan impression of superiority--I was young then--but when I left I had my\ndoubts who it was that scored most in that interview. However, I have\nremembered ever since. I was not a frequent offender before--I have\nnever offered a Burman liquor since.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nMANNERS\n\n     'Not where others fail, or do, or leave undone--the wise should\n     notice what himself has done, or left undone.'--_Dammapada._\n\n\nA remarkable trait of the Burmese character is their unwillingness to\ninterfere in other people's affairs. Whether it arises from their\nreligion of self-culture or no, I cannot say, but it is in full keeping\nwith it. Every man's acts and thoughts are his own affair, think the\nBurmans; each man is free to go his own way, to think his own thoughts,\nto act his own acts, as long as he does not too much annoy his\nneighbours. Each man is responsible for himself and for himself alone,\nand there is no need for him to try and be guardian also to his fellows.\nAnd so the Burman likes to go his own way, to be a free man within\ncertain limits; and the freedom that he demands for himself, he will\nextend also to his neighbours. He has a very great and wide tolerance\ntowards all his neighbours, not thinking it necessary to disapprove of\nhis neighbours' acts because they may not be the same as his own, never\nthinking it necessary to interfere with his neighbours as long as the\nlaws are not broken. Our ideas that what habits are different to our\nhabits must be wrong, and being wrong, require correction at our hands,\nis very far from his thoughts. He never desires to interfere with\nanyone. Certain as he is that his own ideas are best, he is contented\nwith that knowledge, and is not ceaselessly desirous of proving it upon\nother people. And so a foreigner may go and live in a Burman village,\nmay settle down there and live his own life and follow his own customs\nin perfect freedom, may dress and eat and drink and pray and die as he\nlikes. No one will interfere. No one will try and correct him; no one\nwill be for ever insisting to him that he is an outcast, either from\ncivilization or from religion. The people will accept him for what he\nis, and leave the matter there. If he likes to change his ways and\nconform to Burmese habits and Buddhist forms, so much the better; but if\nnot, never mind.\n\nIt is, I think, a great deal owing to this habit of mind that the\nmanners of the Burmese are usually so good, children in civilization as\nthey are. There is amongst them no rude inquisitiveness and no desire to\nin any way circumscribe your freedom, by either remark or act. Surely of\nall things that cause trouble, nothing is so common amongst us as the\ninterference with each other's ways, as the needless giving of advice.\nIt seems to each of us that we are responsible, not only for ourselves,\nbut also for everyone else near us; and so if we disapprove of any act,\nwe are always in a hurry to express our disapproval and to try and\npersuade the actor to our way of thinking. We are for ever thinking of\nothers and trying to improve them; as a nation we try to coerce weaker\nnations and to convert stronger ones, and as individuals we do the same.\nWe are sure that other people cannot but be better and happier for being\nbrought into our ways of thinking, by force even, if necessary. We call\nit philanthropy.\n\nBut the Buddhist does not believe this at all. Each man, each nation,\nhas, he thinks, enough to do managing his or its own affairs.\nInterference, any sort of interference, he is sure can do nothing but\nharm. _You_ cannot save a man. He can save himself; you can do nothing\nfor him. You may force or persuade him into an outer agreement with you,\nbut what is the value of that? All dispositions that are good, that are\nof any value at all, must come spontaneously from the heart of man.\nFirst, he must desire them, and then struggle to obtain them; by this\nmeans alone can any virtue be reached. This, which is the key of his\nreligion, is the key also of his private life. Each man is a free man to\ndo what he likes, in a way that we have never understood.\n\nEven under the rule of the Burmese kings there was the very widest\ntolerance. You never heard of a foreigner being molested in any way,\nbeing forbidden to live as he liked, being forbidden to erect his own\nplaces of worship. He had the widest freedom, as long as he infringed no\nlaw. The Burmese rule may not have been a good one in many ways, but it\nwas never guilty of persecution, of any attempt at forcible conversion,\nof any desire to make such an attempt.\n\nThis tolerance, this inclination to let each man go his own way, is\nconspicuous even down to the little events of life. It is very marked,\neven in conversation, how little criticism is indulged in towards each\nother, how there is an absolute absence of desire to proselytize each\nother in any way. 'It is his way,' they will say, with a laugh, of any\npeculiar act of any person; 'it is his way. What does it matter to us?'\nOf all the lovable qualities of the Burmese, and they are many, there\nare none greater than these--their light-heartedness and their\ntolerance.\n\nA Burman will always assume that you know your own business, and will\nleave you alone to do it. How great a boon this is I think we hardly can\nunderstand, for we have none of it. And he carries it to an extent that\nsometimes surprises us.\n\nSuppose you are walking along a road and there is a broken bridge on the\nway, a bridge that you might fall through. No one will try and prevent\nyou going. Any Burman who saw you go will, if he think at all about it,\ngive you the credit for knowing what you are about. It will not enter\ninto his head to go out of his way to give you advice about that\nbridge. If you ask him he will help you all he can, but he will not\nvolunteer; and so if you depend on volunteered advice, you may fall\nthrough the bridge and break your neck, perhaps.\n\nAt first this sort of thing seems to us to spring from laziness or from\ndiscourtesy. It is just the reverse of this latter; it is excess of\ncourtesy that assumes you to be aware of what you are about, and capable\nof judging properly.\n\nYou may get yourself into all sorts of trouble, and unless you call out\nno one will assist you. They will suppose that if you require help you\nwill soon ask for it. You could drift all the way from Bhamo to Rangoon\non a log, and I am sure no one would try to pick you up unless you\nshouted for help. Let anyone try to drift down from Oxford to Richmond,\nand he will be forcibly saved every mile of his journey, I am sure. The\nBurman boatmen you passed would only laugh and ask how you were getting\non. The English boatman would have you out of that in a jiffy, saving\nyou despite yourself. You might commit suicide in Burma, and no one\nwould stop you. 'It is your own look-out,' they would say; 'if you want\nto die why should we prevent you? What business is it of ours?'\n\nNever believe for a moment that this is cold-heartedness. Nowhere is\nthere any man so kind-hearted as a Burman, so ready to help you, so\nhospitable, so charitable both in act and thought.\n\nIt is only that he has another way of seeing these things to what we\nhave. He would resent as the worst discourtesy that which we call having\na friendly interest in each other's doings. Volunteered advice comes, so\nhe thinks, from pure self-conceit, and is intolerable; help that he has\nnot asked for conveys the assumption that he is a fool, and the helper\never so much wiser than he. It is in his eyes simply a form of\nself-assertion, an attempt at governing other people, an infringement of\ngood manners not to be borne.\n\nEach man is responsible for himself, each man is the maker of himself.\nOnly he can do himself good by good thought, by good acts; only he can\nhurt himself by evil intentions and deeds. Therefore in your intercourse\nwith others remember always yourself, remember that no one can injure\nyou but yourself; be careful, therefore, of your acts for your own sake.\nFor if you lose your temper, who is the sufferer? Yourself; no one but\nyourself. If you are guilty of disgraceful acts, of discourteous words,\nwho suffers? Yourself. Remember that; remember that courtesy and good\ntemper are due from you to everyone. What does it matter who the other\nperson be? you should be courteous to him, not because he deserves it,\nbut because you deserve it. Courtesy is measured by the giver, not by\nthe receiver. We are apt sometimes to think that this continual care of\nself is selfishness; it is the very reverse. Self-reverence is the\nantipode of self-conceit, of selfishness. If you honour yourself, you\nwill be careful that nothing dishonourable shall come from you.\n'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control;' we, too, have had a poet\nwho taught this.\n\nAnd so dignity of manner is very marked amongst this people. It is\ncultivated as a gift, as the outward sign of a good heart.\n\n'A rough diamond;' no Burman would understand this saying. The value of\na diamond is that it can be polished. As long as it remains in the\nrough, it has no more beauty than a lump of mud. If your heart be good,\nso, too, will be your manners. A good tree will bring forth good fruit.\nIf the fruit be rotten, can the tree be good? Not so. If your manners\nare bad, so, too, is your heart. To be courteous, even tempered, to be\ntolerant and full of sympathy, these are the proofs of an inward\ngoodness. You cannot have one without the other. Outward appearances are\nnot deceptive, but are true.\n\nTherefore they strive after even temper. Hot-tempered as they are,\neasily aroused to wrath, easily awakened to pleasure, men with the\npassions of a child, they have very great command over themselves. They\nare ashamed of losing their temper; they look upon it as a disgrace. We\nare often proud of it; we think sometimes we do well to be angry.\n\nSo they are very patient, very long-suffering, accepting with\nresignation the troubles of this world, the kicks and spurns of\nfortune, secure in this, that each man's self is in his own keeping. If\nthere be trouble for to-day, what can it matter if you do but command\nyourself? If others be discourteous to you, that cannot hurt you, if you\ndo not allow yourself to be discourteous in return. Take care of your\nown soul, sure that in the end you will win, either in this life or in\nsome other, that which you deserve. What you have made your soul fit\nfor, that you will obtain, sooner or later, whether it be evil or\nwhether it be good. The law of righteousness is for ever this, that what\na man deserves that he will obtain. And in the end, if you cultivate\nyour soul with unwearying patience, striving always after what is good,\npurifying yourself from the lust of life, you will come unto that lake\nwhere all desire shall be washed away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n'NOBLESSE OBLIGE'\n\n     'Sooner shall the cleft rock reunite so as to make a whole, than\n     may he who kills any living being be admitted into our\n     society.'--_Acceptance into the Monkhood._\n\n\nIt is very noticeable throughout the bazaars of Burma that all the beef\nbutchers are natives of India. No Burman will kill a cow or a bullock,\nand no Burman will sell its meat. It is otherwise with pork and fowls.\nBurmans may sometimes be found selling these; and fish are almost\ninvariably sold by the wives of the fishermen. During the king's time,\nany man who was even found in possession of beef was liable to very\nsevere punishment. The only exception, as I have explained elsewhere,\nwas in the case of the queen when expecting an addition to her family,\nand it was necessary that she should be strengthened in all ways. None,\nnot even foreigners, were allowed to kill beef, and this law was very\nstringently observed. Other flesh and fish might, as far as the law of\nthe country went, be sold with impunity. You could not be fined for\nkilling and eating goats, or fowls, or pigs, and these were sold\noccasionally. It is now ten years since King Thibaw was overthrown, and\nthere is now no law against the sale of beef. And yet, as I have said,\nno respectable Burman will even now kill or sell beef. The law was\nfounded on the beliefs of the people, and though the law is dead, the\nbeliefs remain.\n\nIt is true that the taking of life is against Buddhist commands. No life\nat all may be taken by him who adheres to Buddhistic teaching. Neither\nfor sport, nor for revenge, nor for food, may any animal be deprived of\nthe breath that is in it. And this is a command wonderfully well kept.\nThere are a few exceptions, but they are known and accepted as breaches\nof the law, for the law itself knows no exceptions. Fish, as I have\nsaid, can be obtained almost everywhere. They are caught in great\nquantities in the river, and are sold in most bazaars, either fresh or\nsalted. It is one of the staple foods of the Burmese. But although they\nwill eat fish, they despise the fisherman. Not so much, perhaps, as if\nhe killed other living things, but still, the fisherman is an outcast\nfrom decent society. He will have to suffer great and terrible\npunishment before he can be cleansed from the sins that he daily\ncommits. Notwithstanding this, there are many fishermen in Burma.\n\nA fish is a very cold-blooded beast. One must be very hard up for\nsomething to love to have any affection to spare upon fishes. They\ncannot be, or at all events they never are, domesticated, and most of\nthem are not beautiful. I am not aware that they have ever been known to\ndisplay any attachment to anyone, which accounts, perhaps, for the\ncomparatively lenient eye with which their destruction is contemplated.\n\nFor with warm-blooded animals it is very different. Cattle, as I have\nsaid, can never be killed nor their meat sold by a Burman, and with\nother animals the difficulty is not much less.\n\nI was in Upper Burma for some months before the war, and many a time I\ncould get no meat at all. Living in a large town among prosperous\npeople, I could get no flesh at all, only fish and rice and vegetables.\nWhen, after much trouble, my Indian cook would get me a few fowls, he\nwould often be waylaid and forced to release them. An old woman, say,\nanxious to do some deed of merit, would come to him as he returned\ntriumphantly home with his fowls and tender him money, and beg him to\nrelease the fowls. She would give the full price or double the price of\nthe fowls; she had no desire to gain merit at another person's expense,\nand the unwilling cook would be obliged to give up the fowls. Public\nopinion was so strong he dare not refuse. The money was paid, the fowls\nset free, and I dined on tinned beef.\n\nAnd yet the villages are full of fowls. Why they are kept I do not know.\nCertainly not for food. I do not mean to say that an accidental meeting\nbetween a rock and a fowl may not occasionally furnish forth a dinner,\nbut this is not the object with which they are kept--of this I am sure.\n\nYou would not suppose that fowls were capable of exciting much\naffection, yet I suppose they are. Certainly in one case ducks were.\nThere is a Burman lady I know who is married to an Englishman. He kept\nducks. He bought a number of ducklings, and had them fed up so that they\nmight be fat and succulent when the time came for them to be served at\ntable. They became very fine ducks, and my friend had promised me one. I\ntook an interest in them, and always noticed their increasing fatness\nwhen I rode that way. Imagine, then, my disappointment when one day I\nsaw that all the ducks had disappeared.\n\nI stopped to inquire. Yes, truly they were all gone, my friend told me.\nIn his absence his wife had gone up the river to visit some friends, and\nhad taken the ducks with her. She could not bear, she said, that they\nshould be killed, so she took them away and distributed them among her\nfriends, one here and one there, where she was sure they would be well\ntreated and not killed. When she returned she was quite pleased at her\nsuccess, and laughed at her husband and me.\n\nThis same lady was always terribly distressed when she had to order a\nfowl to be killed for her husband's breakfast, even if she had never\nseen it before. I have seen her, after telling the cook to kill a fowl\nfor breakfast, run away and sit down in the veranda with her hands over\nher ears, and her face the very picture of misery, fearing lest she\nshould hear its shrieks. I think that this was the one great trouble to\nher in her marriage, that her husband would insist on eating fowls and\nducks, and that she had to order them to be killed.\n\nAs she is, so are most Burmans. If there is all this trouble about\nfowls, it can be imagined how the trouble increases when it comes to\ngoats or any larger beasts. In the jungle villages meat of any kind at\nall is never seen: no animals of any kind are allowed to be killed. An\nofficer travelling in the district would be reduced to what he could\ncarry with him, if it were not for an Act of Government obliging\nvillages to furnish--on payment, of course--supplies for officers and\ntroops passing through. The mere fact of such a law being necessary is\nsufficient proof of the strength of the feeling against taking life.\n\nOf course, all shooting, either for sport or for food, is looked upon as\ndisgraceful. In many jungle villages where deer abound there are one or\ntwo hunters who make a living by hunting. But they are disgraced men.\nThey are worse than fishermen, and they will have a terrible penalty to\npay for it all. It will take much suffering to wash from their souls the\ncruelty, the blood-thirstiness, the carelessness to suffering, the\nabsence of compassion, that hunting must produce. 'Is there no food in\nthe bazaar, that you must go and take the lives of animals?' has been\nsaid to me many a time. And when my house-roof was infested by sparrows,\nwho dropped grass and eggs all over my rooms, so that I was obliged to\nshoot them with a little rifle, this was no excuse. 'You should have\nbuilt a sparrow-cote,' they told me. 'If you had built a sparrow-cote,\nthey would have gone away and left you in peace. They only wanted to\nmake nests and lay eggs and have little ones, and you went and shot\nthem.' There are many sparrow-cotes to be seen in the villages.\n\nI might give example after example of this sort, for they happen every\nday. We who are meat-eaters, who delight in shooting, who have a horror\nof insects and reptiles, are continually coming into collision with the\nprinciples of our neighbours; for even harmful reptiles they do not care\nto kill. Truly I believe it is a myth, the story of the Burmese mother\ncourteously escorting out of the house the scorpion which had just\nbitten her baby. A Burmese mother worships her baby as much as the woman\nof any other nation does, and I believe there is no crime she would not\ncommit in its behalf. But if she saw a scorpion walking about in the\nfields, she would not kill it as we should. She would step aside and\npass on. 'Poor beast!' she would say, 'why should I hurt it? It never\nhurt me.'\n\nThe Burman never kills insects out of sheer brutality. If a beetle drone\nannoyingly, he will catch it in a handkerchief and put it outside, and\nso with a bee. It is a great trouble often to get your Burmese servants\nto keep your house free of ants and other annoying creatures. If you\ntell them to kill the insects they will, for in that case the sin falls\non you. Without special orders they would rather leave the ants alone.\n\nIn the district in which I am now living snakes are very plentiful.\nThere are cobras and keraits, but the most dreaded is the Russell's\nviper. He is a snake that averages from three to four feet long, and is\nvery thick, with a big head and a stumpy tail. His body is marked very\nprettily with spots and blurs of light on a dark, grayish green, and he\nis so like the shadows of the grass and weeds in a dusty road, that you\ncan walk on him quite unsuspectingly. Then he will bite you, and you\ndie. He comes out usually in the evening before dark, and lies about on\nfootpaths to catch the home-coming ploughman or reaper, and, contrary to\nthe custom of other snakes, he will not flee on hearing a footstep. When\nanyone approaches he lies more still than ever, not even a movement of\nhis head betraying him. He is so like the colour of the ground, he hopes\nhe will be passed unseen; and he is slow and lethargic in his movements,\nand so is easy to kill when once detected. As a Burman said, 'If he sees\nyou first, he kills you; if you see him first, you kill him.'\n\nIn this district no Burman hesitates a moment in killing a viper when\nhe has the chance. Usually he has to do it in self-defence. This viper\nis terribly feared, as over a hundred persons a year die here by his\nbite. He is so hated and feared that he has become an outcast from the\nlaw that protects all life.\n\nBut with other snakes it is not so. There is the hamadryad, for\ninstance. He is a great snake about ten to fourteen feet long, and he is\nthe only snake that will attack you first. He is said always to do so,\ncertainly he often does. One attacked me once when out quail-shooting.\nHe put up his great neck and head suddenly at a distance of only five or\nsix feet, and was just preparing to strike, when I literally blew his\nhead off with two charges of shot.\n\nYou would suppose he was vicious enough to be included with the\nRussell's viper in the category of the exceptions, but no. Perhaps he is\ntoo rare to excite such fierce and deadly hate as makes the Burman\nforget his law and kill the viper. However it may be, the Burman is not\nready to kill the hamadryad. A few weeks ago a friend of mine and myself\ncame across two little Burman boys carrying a jar with a piece of broken\ntile over it. The lads kept lifting up the tile and peeping in, and then\nputting the tile on again in a great hurry, and their actions excited\nour curiosity. So we called them to come to us, and we looked into the\njar. It was full of baby hamadryads. The lads had found a nest of them\nin the absence of the mother, who would have killed them if she had\nbeen there, and had secured all the little snakes. There were seven of\nthem.\n\nWe asked the boys what they intended to do with the snakes, and they\nanswered that they would show them to their friends in the village. 'And\nthen?' we asked. And then they would let them go in the water. My friend\nkilled all the hamadryads on the spot, and gave the boys some coppers,\nand we went on. Can you imagine this happening anywhere else? Can you\nthink of any other schoolboys sparing any animal they caught, much less\npoisonous snakes? The extraordinary hold that this tenet of their\nreligion has upon the Burmese must be seen to be understood. What I\nwrite will sound like some fairy story, I fear, to my people at home. It\nis far beneath the truth. The belief that it is wrong to take life is a\nbelief with them as strong as any belief could be. I do not know\nanywhere any command, earthly or heavenly, that is acted up to with such\nearnestness as this command is amongst the Burmese. It is an abiding\nprinciple of their daily life.\n\nWhere the command came from I do not know. I cannot find any allusion to\nit in the life of the great teacher. We know that he ate meat. It seems\nto me that it is older even than he. It has been derived both by the\nBurmese Buddhists and the Hindus from a faith whose origin is hidden in\nthe mists of long ago. It is part of that far older faith on which\nBuddhism was built, as was Christianity on Judaism.\n\nBut if not part of his teaching--and though it is included in the sacred\nbooks, we do not know how much of them are derived from the Buddha\nhimself--it is in strict accordance with all his teaching. That is one\nof the most wonderful points of Buddhism, it is all in accordance; there\nare no exceptions.\n\nI have heard amongst Europeans a very curious explanation of this\nrefusal of Buddhists to take life. 'Buddhists,' they say, 'believe in\nthe transmigration of souls. They believe that when a man dies his soul\nmay go into a beast. You could not expect him to kill a bull, when\nperchance his grandfather's soul might inhabit there.' This is their\nexplanation, this is the way they put two and two together to make five.\nThey know that Buddhists believe in transmigration, they know that\nBuddhists do not like to take life, and therefore one is the cause of\nthe other.\n\nI have mentioned this explanation to Burmans while talking of the\nsubject, and they have always laughed at it. They had never heard of it\nbefore. It is true that it is part of their great theory of life that\nthe souls of men have risen from being souls of beasts, and that we may\nso relapse if we are not careful. Many stories are told of cases that\nhave occurred where a man has been reincarnated as an animal, and where\nwhat is now the soul of a man used to live in a beast. But that makes no\ndifference. Whatever a man may have been, or may be, he is a man now;\nwhatever a beast may have been, he is a beast now. Never suppose that a\nBurman has any other idea than this. To him men are men, and animals are\nanimals, and men are far the higher. But he does not deduce from this\nthat man's superiority gives him permission to illtreat or to kill\nanimals. It is just the reverse. It is because man is so much higher\nthan the animal that he can and must observe towards animals the very\ngreatest care, feel for them the very greatest compassion, be good to\nthem in every way he can. The Burman's motto should be _Noblesse\noblige_; he knows the meaning, if he knows not the words.\n\nFor the Burman's compassion towards animals goes very much farther than\na mere reluctance to kill them. Although he has no command on the\nsubject, it seems to him quite as important to treat animals well during\ntheir lives as to refrain from taking those lives. His refusal to take\nlife he shares with the Hindu; his perpetual care and tenderness to all\nliving creatures is all his own. And here I may mention a very curious\ncontrast, that whereas in India the Hindu will not take life and the\nMussulman will, yet the Mussulman is by reputation far kinder to his\nbeasts than the Hindu. Here the Burman combines both qualities. He has\nall the kindness to animals that the Mahommedan has, and more, and he\nhas the same horror of taking life that the Hindu has.\n\nComing from half-starved, over-driven India, it is a revelation to see\nthe animals in Burma. The village ponies and cattle and dogs in India\nare enough to make the heart bleed for their sordid misery, but in Burma\nthey are a delight to the eye. They are all fat, every one of them--fat\nand comfortable and impertinent; even the ownerless dogs are well fed. I\nsuppose the indifference of the ordinary native of India to animal\nsuffering comes from the evil of his own lot. He is so very poor, he has\nsuch hard work to find enough for himself and his children, that his\nsympathy is all used up. He has none to spare. He is driven into a dumb\nheartlessness, for I do not think he is actually cruel.\n\nThe Burman is full of the greatest sympathy towards animals of all\nkinds, of the greatest understanding of their ways, of the most\nhumorously good-natured attitude towards them. Looking at them from his\nmanhood, he has no contempt for them; but the gentle toleration of a\nfather to very little children who are stupid and troublesome often, but\nare very lovable. He feels himself so far above them that he can\ncondescend towards them, and forbear with them.\n\nHis ponies are pictures of fatness and impertinence and go. They never\nhave any vice because the Burman is never cruel to them; they are never\nwell trained, partly because he does not know how to train them, partly\nbecause they are so near the aboriginal wild pony as to be incapable of\nvery much training. But they are willing; they will go for ever, and\nare very strong, and they have admirable constitutions and tempers. You\ncould not make a Burman ill-use his pony if you tried, and I fancy that\nto break these little half-wild ponies to go in cabs in crowded streets\nrequires severe treatment. At least, I never knew but one\nhackney-carriage driver either in Rangoon or Mandalay who was a Burman,\nand he very soon gave it up. He said that the work was too heavy either\nfor a pony or a man. I think, perhaps, it was for the safety of the\npublic that he resigned, for his ponies were the very reverse of\nmeek--which a native of India says a hackney-carriage pony should\nbe--and he drove entirely by the light of Nature.\n\nSo all the drivers of gharries, as we call them, are natives of India or\nhalf-breeds, and it is amongst them that the work of the Society for the\nPrevention of Cruelty to Animals principally lies. While I was in\nRangoon I tried a number of cases of over-driving, of using ponies with\nsore withers and the like. I never tried a Burman. Even in Rangoon,\nwhich has become almost Indianized, his natural humanity never left the\nBurman. As far as Burmans are concerned, the Society for the Prevention\nof Cruelty to Animals need not exist. They are kinder to their animals\nthan even the members of the Society could be. Instances occur every\nday; here is one of the most striking that I remember.\n\nThere is a town in Burma where there are some troops stationed, and\nwhich is the headquarters of the civil administration of the district.\nIt is, or was then, some distance from a railway-station, and it was\nnecessary to make some arrangement for the carriage of the mails to and\nfrom the town and station. The Post-Office called for tenders, and at\nlength it was arranged through the civil authorities that a coach should\nrun once a day each way to carry the mails and passengers. A native of\nIndia agreed to take the contract--for Burmans seldom or never care to\ntake them--and he was to comply with certain conditions and receive a\ncertain subsidy.\n\nThere was a great deal of traffic between the town and station, and it\nwas supposed that the passenger traffic would pay the contractor well,\napart from his mail subsidy. For Burmans are always free with their\nmoney, and the road was long and hot and dusty. I often passed that\ncoach as I rode. I noticed that the ponies were poor, very poor, and\nwere driven a little hard, but I saw no reason for interference. It did\nnot seem to me that any cruelty was committed, nor that the ponies were\nactually unfit to be driven. I noticed that the driver used his whip a\ngood deal, but then some ponies require the whip. I never thought much\nabout it, as I always rode my own ponies, and they always shied at the\ncoach, but I should have noticed if there had been anything remarkable.\nTowards the end of the year it became necessary to renew the contract,\nand the contractor was approached on the subject. He said he was\nwilling to continue the contract for another year if the mail subsidy\nwas largely increased. He said he had lost money on that year's working.\nWhen asked how he could possibly have lost considering the large number\nof people who were always passing up and down, he said that they did not\nride in his coach. Only the European soldiers and a few natives of India\ncame with him. Officers had their own ponies and rode, and the Burmans\neither hired a bullock-cart or walked. They hardly ever came in his\ncoach, but he could not say what the reason might be.\n\nSo an inquiry was made, and the Burmese were asked why they did not ride\non the coach. Were the fares too high?--was it uncomfortable? But no, it\nwas for neither of these reasons that they left the coach to the\nsoldiers and natives of India. It was because of the ponies. No Burman\nwould care to ride behind ponies who were treated as these ponies\nwere--half fed, overdriven, whipped. It was a misery to see them; it was\ntwice a misery to drive behind them. 'Poor beasts!' they said; 'you can\nsee their ribs, and when they come to the end of a stage they are fit to\nfall down and die. They should be turned out to graze.'\n\nThe opinion was universal. The Burmans preferred to spend twice or\nthrice the money and hire a bullock-cart and go slowly, while the coach\nflashed past them in a whirl of dust, or they preferred to walk. Many\nand many times have I seen the roadside rest-houses full of travellers\nhalting for a few minutes' rest. They walked while the coach came by\nempty; and nearly all of them could have afforded the fare. It was a\nvery striking instance of what pure kind-heartedness will do, for there\nwould have been no religious command broken by going in the coach. It\nwas the pure influence of compassion towards the beasts and refusal to\nbe a party to such hard-heartedness. And yet, as I have said, I do not\nthink the law could have interfered with success. Surely a people who\ncould act like this have the very soul of religion in their hearts,\nalthough the act was not done in the name of religion.\n\nAll the animals--the cattle, the ponies, and the buffaloes--are so tame\nthat it is almost an unknown thing for anyone to get hurt.\n\nThe cattle are sometimes afraid of the white face and strange attire of\na European, but you can walk through the herds as they come home in the\nevening with perfect confidence that they will not hurt you. Even a cow\nwith a young calf will only eye you suspiciously; and with the Burmans\neven the huge water buffaloes are absolutely tame. You can see a herd of\nthese great beasts, with horns six feet across, come along under the\ncommand of a very small boy or girl perched on one of their broad backs.\nHe flourishes a little stick, and issues his commands like a general. It\nis one of the quaintest imaginable sights to see this little fellow get\noff his steed, run after a straggler, and beat him with his stick. The\nbuffalo eyes his master, whom he could abolish with one shake of his\nhead, submissively, and takes the beating, which he probably feels about\nas much as if a straw fell on him, good-humouredly. The children never\nseem to come to grief. Buffaloes occasionally charge Europeans, but the\nonly place where I have known of Burmans being killed by buffaloes is in\nthe Kale Valley. There the buffaloes are turned out into the jungle for\neight months in the year, and are only caught for ploughing and carting.\nNaturally they are quite wild; in fact, many of them are the offspring\nof wild bulls.\n\nThe Burmans, too, are very fond of dogs. Their villages are full of\ndogs; but, as far as I know, they never use them for anything, and they\nare never trained to do anything. They are supposed to be useful as\nwatch-dogs, but I do not think they are very good even at that. I have\nsurrounded a village before dawn, and never a dog barked, and I have\nheard them bark all night at nothing.\n\nBut when a Burman sees a fox-terrier or any English dog his delight is\nunfeigned. When we first took Upper Burma, and such sights were rare,\nhalf a village would turn out to see the little 'tail-less' dog trotting\nalong after its master. And if the terrier would 'beg,' then he would\nwin all hearts. I am not only referring to children, but to grown men\nand women; and then there is always something peculiarly childlike and\nfrank in these children of the great river.\n\nOnly to-day, as I was walking up the bank of the river in the early\ndawn, I heard some Burman boatmen discussing my fox-terrier. They were\nabout fifteen yards from the shore, poling their boat up against the\ncurrent, which is arduous work; and as I passed them my little dog ran\ndown the bank and looked at them across the water, and they saw her.\n\n'See now,' said one man to another, pausing for a moment with his pole\nin his hand--'see the little white dog with the brown face, how wise she\nlooks!'\n\n'And how pretty!' said a man steering in the stern. 'Come!' he cried,\nholding out his hand to it.\n\nBut the dog only made a splash in the water with her paws, and then\nturned and ran after me. The boatmen laughed and resumed their poling,\nand I passed on. In the still morning across the still water I could\nhear every word, but I hardly took any note; I have heard it so often.\nOnly now when I come to write on this subject do I remember.\n\nIt has been inculcated in us from childhood that it is a manly thing to\nbe indifferent to pain--not to our own pain only, but to that of all\nothers. To be sorry for a hunted hare, to compassionate the wounded\ndeer, to shrink from torturing the brute creation, has been accounted by\nus as namby-pamby sentimentalism, not fit for man, fit only for a\nsqueamish woman. To the Burman it is one of the highest of all virtues.\nHe believes that all that is beautiful in life is founded on compassion\nand kindness and sympathy--that nothing of great value can exist without\nthem. Do you think that a Burmese boy would be allowed to birds'-nest,\nor worry rats with a terrier, or go ferreting? Not so. These would be\ncrimes.\n\nThat this kindness and compassion for animals has very far-reaching\nresults no one can doubt. If you are kind to animals, you will be kind,\ntoo, to your fellow-man. It is really the same thing, the same feeling\nin both cases. If to be superior in position to an animal justifies you\nin torturing it, so it would do with men. If you are in a better\nposition than another man, richer, stronger, higher in rank, that\nwould--that does often in our minds--justify ill-treatment and contempt.\nOur innate feeling towards all that we consider inferior to ourselves is\nscorn; the Burman's is compassion. You can see this spirit coming out in\nevery action of their daily life, in their dealings with each other, in\ntheir thoughts, in their speech. 'You are so strong, have you no\ncompassion for him who is weak, who is tempted, who has fallen?' How\noften have I heard this from a Burman's lips! How often have I seen him\nact up to it! It seems to them the necessary corollary of strength that\nthe strong man should be sympathetic and kind. It seems to them an\nunconscious confession of weakness to be scornful, revengeful,\ninconsiderate. Courtesy, they say, is the mark of a great man,\ndiscourtesy of a little one. No one who feels his position secure will\nlose his temper, will persecute, will be disdainful. Their word for a\nfool and for a hasty-tempered man is the same. To them it is the same\nthing, one infers the other. And so their attitude towards animals is\nbut an example of their attitude to each other. That an animal or a man\nshould be lower and weaker than you is the strongest claim he can have\non your humanity, and your courtesy and consideration for him is the\nclearest proof of your own superiority. And so in his dealings with\nanimals the Buddhist considers himself, consults his own dignity, his\nown strength, and is kind and compassionate to them out of the greatness\nof his own heart. Nothing is more beautiful than the Burman in his ways\nwith his children, and his beasts, with all who are lesser than himself.\n\nEven to us, who think so very differently from him on many points, there\nis a great and abiding charm in all this, to which we can find only one\nexception; for to our ideas there is one exception, and it is this: No\nBurman will take any life if he can help it, and therefore, if any\nanimal injure itself, he will not kill it--not even to put it out of its\npain, as we say. I have seen bullocks split on slippery roads, I have\nseen ponies with broken legs, I have seen goats with terrible wounds\ncaused by accidental falls, and no one would kill them. If, when you are\nout shooting, your beaters pick up a wounded hare or partridge, do not\nsuppose that they wring its neck; you must yourself do that, or it will\nlinger on till you get home. Under no circumstances will they take the\nlife even of a wounded beast. And if you ask them, they will say: 'If a\nman be sick, do you shoot him? If he injure his spine so that he will be\na cripple for life, do you put him out of his pain?'\n\nIf you reply that men and beasts are different, they will answer that in\nthis point they do not recognise the difference. 'Poor beast! let him\nlive out his little life.' And they will give him grass and water till\nhe dies.\n\nThis is the exception that I meant, but now, after I have written it, I\nam not so sure. Is it an exception?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nALL LIFE IS ONE\n\n     'I heard a voice that cried,\n     \"Balder the Beautiful\n     Is dead, is dead,\"\n     And through the misty air\n     Passed like the mournful cry\n     Of sunward-sailing cranes.'\n                            TEGNER'S _Drapa_.\n\n\nAll romance has died out of our woods and hills in England, all our\nfairies are dead long ago. Knowledge so far has brought us only death.\nLater on it will bring us a new life. It is even now showing us how this\nmay be, and is bringing us face to face again with Nature, and teaching\nus to know and understand the life that there is about us. Science is\ntelling us again what we knew long ago and forgot, that our life is not\napart from the life about us, but of it. Everything is akin to us, and\nwhen we are more accustomed to this knowledge, when we have ceased to\nregard it as a new, strange teaching, and know that we are but seeing\nagain with clearer eyes what a half-knowledge blinded us to, then the\nworld will be bright and beautiful to us as it was long ago.\n\nBut now all is dark. There are no dryads in our trees, nor nymphs among\nthe reeds that fringe the river; even our peaks hold for us no guardian\nspirit, that may take the reckless trespasser and bind him in a rock for\never. And because we have lost our belief in fairies, because we do not\nnow think that there are goblins in our caves, because there is no\nspirit in the winds nor voice in the thunder, we have come to think that\nthe trees and the rocks, the flowers and the storm, are all dead things.\nThey are made up, we say, of materials that we know, they are governed\nby laws that we have discovered, and there is no life anywhere in\nNature.\n\nAnd yet this cannot be true. Far truer is it to believe in fairies and\nin spirits than in nothing at all; for surely there is life all about\nus. Who that has lived out alone in the forest, that has lain upon the\nhillside and seen the mountains clothe themselves in lustrous shadows\nshot with crimson when the day dies, who that has heard the sigh come up\nout of the ravines where the little breezes move, that has watched the\ntrees sway their leaves to and fro, beckoning to each other with wayward\namorous gestures, but has known that these are not dead things?\n\nWatch the stream coming down the hill with a flash and a laugh in the\nsunlight, look into the dark brown pools in the deep shadows beneath\nthe rocks, or voyage a whole night upon the breast of the great river,\ndrifting past ghostly monasteries and silent villages, and then say if\nthere be no life in the waters, if they, too, are dead things. There is\nno consolation like the consolation of Nature, no sympathy like the\nsympathy of the hills and streams; and sympathy comes from life. There\nis no sympathy with the dead.\n\nWhen you are alone in the forest all this life will come and talk to\nyou, if you are quiet and understand. There is love deep down in the\npassionate heart of the flower, as there is in the little quivering\nhoneysucker flitting after his mate, as there was in Romeo long ago.\nThere is majesty in the huge brown precipice greater than ever looked\nfrom the face of a king. All life is one. The soul that moves within you\nwhen you hear the deer call to each other far above in the misty meadows\nof the night is the same soul that moves in everything about you. No\npeople who have lived much with Nature have failed to descry this. They\nhave recognised the life, they have felt the sympathy of the world about\nthem, and to this life they have given names and forms as they would to\nfriends whom they loved. Fairies and goblins, fauns and spirits, these\nare but names and personifications of a real life. But to him who has\nnever felt this life, who has never been wooed by the trees and hills,\nthese things are but foolishness, of course.\n\nTo the Burman, not less than to the Greek of long ago, all nature is\nalive. The forest and the river and the mountains are full of spirits,\nwhom the Burmans call Nats. There are all kinds of Nats, good and bad,\ngreat and little, male and female, now living round about us. Some of\nthem live in the trees, especially in the huge fir-tree that shades half\nan acre without the village; or among the fernlike fronds of the\ntamarind; and you will often see beneath such a tree, raised upon poles\nor nestled in the branches, a little house built of bamboo and thatch,\nperhaps two feet square. You will be told when you ask that this is the\nhouse of the Tree-Nat. Flowers will be offered sometimes, and a little\nwater or rice maybe, to the Nat, never supposing that he is in need of\nsuch things, but as a courteous and graceful thing to do; for it is not\nsafe to offend these Nats, and many of them are very powerful. There is\na Nat of whom I know, whose home is in a great tree at the crossing of\ntwo roads, and he has a house there built for him, and he is much\nfeared. He is such a great Nat that it is necessary when you pass his\nhouse to dismount from your pony and walk to a respectful distance. If\nyou haughtily ride past, trouble will befall you. A friend of mine\nriding there one day rejected all the advice of his Burmese companions\nand did not dismount, and a few days later he was taken deadly sick of\nfever. He very nearly died, and had to go away to the Straits for a\nsea-trip to take the fever out of his veins. It was a very near thing\nfor him. That was in the Burmese times, of course. After that he always\ndismounted. But all Nats are not so proud nor so much to be feared as\nthis one, and it is usually safe to ride past.\n\nEven as I write I am under the shadow of a tree where a Nat used to\nlive, and the headman of the village has been telling me all about it.\nThis is a Government rest-house on a main road between two stations, and\nis built for Government officials travelling on duty about their\ndistricts. To the west of it is a grand fig-tree of the kind called\nNyaungbin by the Burmese. It is a very beautiful tree, though now a\nlittle bare, for it is just before the rains; but it is a great tree\neven now, and two months hence it will be glorious. It was never\nplanted, the headman tells me, but came up of itself very many years\nago, and when it was grown to full size a Nat came to live in it. The\nNat lived in the tree for many years, and took great care of it. No one\nmight injure it or any living creature near it, so jealous was the Nat\nof his abode. And the villagers built a little Nat-house, such as I have\ndescribed, under the branches, and offered flowers and water, and all\nthings went well with those who did well. But if anyone did ill the Nat\npunished him. If he cut the roots of the tree, the Nat hurt his feet;\nand if he injured the branches, the Nat injured his arms; and if he cut\nthe trunk, the Nat came down out of the tree, and killed the\nsacrilegious man right off. There was no running away, because, as you\nknow, the headman said, Nats can go a great deal faster than any man.\nMany men, careless strangers, who camped under the tree and then abused\nthe hospitality of the Nat by hunting near his home, came to severe\ngrief.\n\nBut the Nat has gone now, alas! The tree is still there, but the Nat has\nfled away these many years.\n\n'I suppose he didn't care to stay,' said the headman. 'You see that the\nEnglish Government officials came and camped here, and didn't fear the\nNats. They had fowls killed here for their dinner, and they sang and\nshouted; and they shot the green pigeons who ate his figs, and the\nlittle doves that nested in his branches.'\n\nAll these things were an abomination to the Nat, who hated loud, rough\ntalk and abuse, and to whom all life was sacred.\n\nSo the Nat went away. The headman did not know where he was gone, but\nthere are plenty of trees.\n\n'He has gone somewhere to get peace,' the headman said. 'Somewhere in\nthe jungle, where no one ever comes save the herd-boy and the deer, he\nwill be living in a tree, though I do not think he will easily find a\ntree so beautiful as this.'\n\nThe headman seemed very sorry about it, and so did several villagers who\nwere with him; and I suggested that if the Nat-houses were rebuilt, and\nflowers and water offered, the Nat might know and return. I even offered\nto contribute myself, that it might be taken as an _amende honorable_ on\nbehalf of the English Government. But they did not think this would be\nany use. No Nat would come where there was so much going and coming, so\nlittle care for life, such a disregard for pity and for peace. If we\nwere to take away our rest-house, well then, perhaps, after a time,\nsomething could be done, but not under present circumstances.\n\nAnd so, besides dethroning the Burmese king, and occupying his golden\npalace, we are ousting from their pleasant homes the guardian spirits of\nthe trees. They flee before the cold materialism of our belief, before\nthe brutality of our manners. The headman did not say this; he did not\nmean to say this, for he is a very courteous man and a great friend of\nall of us; but that is what it came to, I think.\n\nThe trunk of this tree is more than ten feet through--not a round bole,\nbut like the pillar in a Gothic cathedral, as of many smaller boles\ngrowing together; and the roots spread out into a pedestal before\nentering the ground. The trunk does not go up very far. At perhaps\ntwenty-five feet above the ground it divides into a myriad of smaller\ntrunks, not branches, till it looks more like a forest than a single\ntree; it is full of life still. Though the pigeons and the doves come\nhere no longer, there are a thousand other birds flitting to and fro in\ntheir aerial city and chirping to each other. Two tiny squirrels have\njust run along a branch nearly over my head, in a desperate hurry\napparently, their tails cocked over their backs, and a sky blue\nchameleon is standing on the trunk near where it parts. There is always\na breeze in this great tree; the leaves are always moving, and there is\na continuous rustle and murmur up there. A mango-tree and tamarind near\nby are quite still. Not a breath shakes their leaves; they are as still\nas stone, but the shadow of the fig-tree is chequered with ever-changing\nlights. Is the Nat really gone? Perhaps not; perhaps he is still there,\nstill caring for his tree, only shy now and distrustful, and therefore\nno more seen.\n\nWhole woods are enchanted sometimes, and no one dare enter them. Such a\nwood I know, far away north, near the hills, which is full of Nats.\nThere was a great deal of game in it, for animals sought shelter there,\nand no one dared to disturb them; not the villagers to cut firewood, nor\nthe girls seeking orchids, nor the hunter after his prey, dared to\ntrespass upon that enchanted ground.\n\n'What would happen,' I asked once, 'if anyone went into that wood? Would\nhe be killed, or what?'\n\nAnd I was told that no one could tell what would happen, only that he\nwould never be seen again alive. 'The Nats would confiscate him,' they\nsaid, 'for intruding on their privacy.' But what they would do to him\nafter the confiscation no one seemed to be quite sure. I asked the\nofficial who was with me, a fine handsome Burman who had been with us in\nmany fights, whether he would go into the wood with me, but he declined\nat once. Enemies are one thing, Nats are quite another, and a very much\nmore dreadful thing. You can escape from enemies, as witness my\ncompanion, who had been shot at times without number and had only once\nbeen hit, in the leg, but you cannot escape Nats. Once, he told me,\nthere were two very sacrilegious men, hunters by profession, only more\nabandoned than even the majority of hunters, and they went into this\nwood to hunt 'They didn't care for Nats,' they said. They didn't care\nfor anything at all apparently. 'They were absolutely without reverence,\nworse than any beast,' said my companion.\n\nSo they went into the wood to shoot, and they never came out again. A\nfew days later their bare bones were found, flung out upon the road near\nthe enchanted wood. The Nats did not care to have even the bones of such\nscoundrels in their wood, and so thrust them out. That was what happened\nto them, and that was what might happen to us if we went in there. We\ndid not go.\n\nThough the Nats of the forest will not allow even one of their beasts to\nbe slain, the Nats of the rivers are not so exclusive. I do not think\nfish are ever regarded in quite the same light as animals. It is true\nthat a fervent Buddhist will not kill even a fish, but a fisherman is\nnot quite such a reprobate as a hunter in popular estimation. And the\nNats think so too, for the Nat of a pool will not forbid all fishing.\nYou must give him his share; you must be respectful to him, and not\noffend him; and then he will fill your nets with gleaming fish, and all\nwill go well with you. If not, of course, you will come to grief; your\nnets will be torn, and your boat upset; and finally, if obstinate, you\nwill be drowned. A great arm will seize you, and you will be pulled\nunder and disappear for ever.\n\nA Nat is much like a human being; if you treat him well he will treat\nyou well, and conversely. Courtesy is never wasted on men or Nats, at\nleast, so a Burman tells me.\n\nThe highest Nats live in the mountains. The higher the Nat the higher\nthe mountain; and when you get to a very high peak indeed, like\nMainthong Peak in Wuntho, you encounter very powerful Nats.\n\nThey tell a story of Mainthong Peak and the Nats there, how all of a\nsudden, one day in 1885, strange noises came from the hill. High up on\nhis mighty side was heard the sound of great guns firing slowly and\ncontinuously; there was the thunder of falling rocks, cries as of\nsomeone bewailing a terrible calamity, and voices calling from the\nprecipices. The people living in their little hamlets about his feet\nwere terrified. Something they knew had happened of most dire import to\nthem, some catastrophe which they were powerless to prevent, which they\ncould not even guess. But when a few weeks later there came even into\nthose remote villages the news of the fall of Mandalay, of the surrender\nof the king, of the 'great treachery,' they knew that this was what the\nNats had been sorrowing over. All the Nats everywhere seem to have been\ndistressed at our arrival, to hate our presence, and to earnestly desire\nour absence. They are the spirits of the country and of the people, and\nthey cannot abide a foreign domination.\n\nBut the greatest place for Nats is the Popa Mountain, which is an\nextinct volcano standing all alone about midway between the river and\nthe Shan Mountains. It is thus very conspicuous, having no hills near it\nto share its majesty; and being in sight from many of the old capitals,\nit is very well known in history and legend. It is covered with dense\nforest, and the villages close about are few. At the top there is a\ncrater with a broken side, and a stream comes flowing out of this break\ndown the mountain. Probably it was the denseness of its forests, the\nabundance of water, and its central position, more than its guardian\nNats, that made it for so many years the last retreating-place of the\nhalf-robber, half-patriot bands that made life so uneasy for us. But the\nNats of Popa Mountains are very famous.\n\nWhen any foreigner was taken into the service of the King of Burma he\nhad to swear an oath of fidelity. He swore upon many things, and among\nthem were included 'all the Nats in Popa.' No Burman would have dared to\nbreak an oath sworn in such a serious way as this, and they did not\nimagine that anyone else would. It was and is a very dangerous thing to\noffend the Popa Nats; for they are still there in the mountain, and\neveryone who goes there must do them reverence.\n\nA friend of mine, a police officer, who was engaged in trying to catch\nthe last of the robber chiefs who hid near Popa, told me that when he\nwent up the mountain shooting he, too, had to make offerings. Some way\nup there is a little valley dark with overhanging trees, and a stream\nflows slowly along it. It is an enchanted valley, and if you look\nclosely you will see that the stream is not as other streams, for it\nflows uphill. It comes rushing into the valley with a great display of\nfoam and froth, and it leaves in a similar way, tearing down the rocks,\nand behaving like any other boisterous hill rivulet; but in the valley\nitself it lies under a spell. It is slow and dark, and has a surface\nlike a mirror, and it flows uphill. There is no doubt about it; anyone\ncan see it. When they came here, my friend tells me, they made a halt,\nand the Burmese hunters with him unpacked his breakfast. He did not want\nto eat then, he said, but they explained that it was not for him, but\nfor the Nats. All his food was unpacked, cold chicken and tinned meats,\nand jam and eggs and bread, and it was spread neatly on a cloth under a\ntree. Then the hunters called upon the Nats to come and take anything\nthey desired, while my friend wondered what he should do if the Nats\ntook all his food and left him with nothing. But no Nats came, although\nthe Burmans called again and again. So they packed up the food, saying\nthat now the Nats would be pleased at the courtesy shown to them, and\nthat my friend would have good sport. Presently they went on, leaving,\nhowever, an egg or two and a little salt, in case the Nats might be\nhungry later, and true enough it was that they did have good luck. At\nother times, my friend says, when he did not observe this ceremony, he\nsaw nothing to shoot at all, but on this day he did well.\n\nThe former history of all Nats is not known. Whether they have had a\nprevious existence in another form, and if so, what, is a secret that\nthey usually keep carefully to themselves, but the history of the Popa\nNats is well known. Everyone who lives near the great hill can tell you\nthat, for it all happened not so long ago. How long exactly no one can\nsay, but not so long that the details of the story have become at all\nclouded by the mists of time.\n\nThey were brother and sister, these Popa Nats, and they had lived away\nup North. The brother was a blacksmith, and he was a very strong man. He\nwas the strongest man in all the country; the blow of his hammer on the\nanvil made the earth tremble, and his forge was as the mouth of hell. No\none was so much feared and so much sought after as he. And as he was\nstrong, so his sister was beautiful beyond all the maidens of the time.\nTheir father and mother were dead, and there was no one but those two,\nthe brother and sister, so they loved each other dearly, and thought of\nno one else. The brother brought home no wife to his house by the forge.\nHe wanted no one while he had his sister there, and when lovers came\nwooing to her, singing amorous songs in the amber dusk, she would have\nnothing to do with them. So they lived there together, he growing\nstronger and she more beautiful every day, till at last a change came.\n\nThe old king died, and a new king came to the throne, and orders were\nsent about to all the governors of provinces and other officials that\nthe most beautiful maidens were to be sent down to the Golden City to be\nwives to the great king. So the governor of that country sent for the\nblacksmith and his sister to his palace, and told them there what orders\nhe had received, and asked the blacksmith to give his sister that she\nmight be sent as queen to the king. We are not told what arguments the\ngovernor used to gain his point, but only this, that when he failed, he\nsent the girl in unto his wife, and there she was persuaded to go. There\nmust have been something very tempting, to one who was but a village\ngirl, in the prospect of being even one of the lesser queens, of living\nin the palace, the centre of the world. So she consented at last, and\nher brother consented, and the girl was sent down under fitting escort\nto find favour in the eyes of her king. But the blacksmith refused to\ngo. It was no good the governor saying such a great man as he must come\nto high honour in the Golden City, it was useless for the girl to beg\nand pray him to come with her--he always refused. So she sailed away\ndown the great river, and the blacksmith returned to his forge.\n\nAs the governor had said, the girl was acceptable in the king's sight,\nand she was made at last one of the principal queens, and of all she had\nmost power over the king. They say she was most beautiful, that her\npresence was as soothing as shade after heat, that her form was as\ngraceful as a young tree, and the palms of her hands were like lotus\nblossoms. She had enemies, of course. Most of the other queens were her\nenemies, and tried to do her harm. But it was useless telling tales of\nher to the king, for the king never believed; and she walked so wisely\nand so well, that she never fell into any snare. But still the plots\nnever ceased.\n\nThere was one day when she was sitting alone in the garden pavilion,\nwith the trees making moving shadows all about her, that the king came\nto her. They talked for a time, and the king began to speak to her of\nher life before she came to the palace, a thing he had never done\nbefore. But he seemed to know all about it, nevertheless, and he spoke\nto her of her brother, and said that he, the king, had heard how no man\nwas so strong as this blacksmith, the brother of the queen. The queen\nsaid it was true, and she talked on and on and praised her brother, and\nbabbled of the days of her childhood, when he carried her on his great\nshoulder, and threw her into the air, catching her again. She was\ndelighted to talk of all these things, and in her pleasure she forgot\nher discretion, and said that her brother was wise as well as strong,\nand that all the people loved him. Never was there such a man as he. The\nking did not seem very pleased with it all, but he said only that the\nblacksmith was a great man, and that the queen must write to him to come\ndown to the city, that the king might see him of whom there was such\ngreat report.\n\nThen the king got up and went away, and the queen began to doubt; and\nthe more she thought the more she feared she had not been acting wisely\nin talking as she did, for it is not wise to praise anyone to a king.\nShe went away to her own room to consider, and to try if she could hear\nof any reason why the king should act as he had done, and desire her\nbrother to come to him to the city; and she found out that it was all a\nplot of her enemies. Herself they had failed to injure, so they were now\nplotting against her through her brother. They had gone to the king, and\nfilled his ear with slanderous reports. They had said that the queen's\nbrother was the strongest man in all the kingdom. 'He was cunning, too,'\nthey said, 'and very popular among all the people; and he was so puffed\nup with pride, now that his sister was a queen, that there was nothing\nhe did not think he could do.' They represented to the king how\ndangerous such a man was in a kingdom, that it would be quite easy for\nhim to raise such rebellion as the king could hardly put down, and that\nhe was just the man to do such a thing. Nay, it was indeed proved that\nhe must be disloyally plotting something, or he would have come down\nwith his sister to the city when she came. But now many months had\npassed, and he never came. Clearly he was not to be trusted. Any other\nman whose sister was a queen would have come and lived in the palace,\nand served the king and become a minister, instead of staying up there\nand pretending to be a blacksmith.\n\nThe king's mind had been much disturbed by this, for it seemed to him\nthat it must be in part true; and he went to the queen, as I have said,\nand his suspicions had not been lulled by what she told him, so he had\nordered her to write to her brother to come down to the palace.\n\nThe queen was terrified when she saw what a mistake she had made, and\nhow she had fallen into the trap of her enemies; but she hoped that the\nking would forget, and she determined that she would send no order to\nher brother to come. But the next day the king came back to the subject,\nand asked her if she had yet sent the letter, and she said 'No!' The\nking was very angry at this disobedience to his orders, and he asked her\nhow it came that she had not done as he had commanded, and sent a\nletter to her brother to call him to the palace.\n\nThen the queen fell at the king's feet and told him all her fears that\nher brother was sent for only to be imprisoned or executed, and she\nbegged and prayed the king to leave him in peace up there in his\nvillage. She assured the king that he was loyal and good, and would do\nno evil.\n\nThe king was rather abashed that his design had been discovered, but he\nwas firm in his purpose. He assured the queen that the blacksmith should\ncome to no harm, but rather good; and he ordered the queen to obey him,\nthreatening her that if she refused he would be sure that she was\ndisloyal also, and there would be no alternative but to send and arrest\nthe blacksmith by force, and punish her, the queen, too. Then the queen\nsaid that if the king swore to her that her brother should come to no\nharm, she would write as ordered. _And the king swore._\n\nSo the queen wrote to her brother, and adjured him by his love to her to\ncome down to the Golden City. She said she had dire need of him, and she\ntold him that the king had sworn that no harm should come to him.\n\nThe letter was sent off by a king's messenger. In due time the\nblacksmith arrived, and he was immediately seized and thrown into prison\nto await his trial.\n\nWhen the queen saw that she had been deceived, she was in despair. She\ntried by every way, by tears and entreaties and caresses, to move the\nking, but all without avail. Then she tried by plotting and bribery to\ngain her brother's release, but it was all in vain. The day for trial\ncame quickly, and the blacksmith was tried, and he was condemned and\nsentenced to be burnt alive by the river on the following day.\n\nOn the evening of the day of trial the queen sent a message to the king\nto come to her; and when the king came reluctantly, fearing a renewal of\nentreaties, expecting a woman made of tears and sobs, full of grief, he\nfound instead that the queen had dried her eyes and dressed herself\nstill more beautifully than ever, till she seemed to the king the very\npearl among women. And she told the king that he was right, and she was\nwrong. She said, putting her arms about him and caressing him, that she\nhad discovered that it was true that her brother had been plotting\nagainst the king, and therefore his death was necessary. It was\nterrible, she said, to find that her brother, whom she had always held\nas a pattern, was no better than a traitor; but it was even so, and her\nking was the wisest of all kings to find it out.\n\nThe king was delighted to find his queen in this mood, and he soothed\nher and talked to her kindly and sweetly, for he really loved her,\nthough he had given in to bad advice about the brother. And when the\nking's suspicions were lulled, the queen said to him that she had now\nbut one request to make, and that was that she might have permission to\ngo down with her maids to the river-shore in the early morning, and see\nherself the execution of her traitor brother. The king, who would now\nhave granted her anything--anything she asked, except just that one\nthing, the life of her brother--gave permission; and then the queen said\nthat she was tired and wished to rest after all the trouble of the last\nfew days, and would the king leave her. So the king left her to herself,\nand went away to his own chambers.\n\nVery early in the morning, ere the crimson flush upon the mountains had\nfaded in the light of day, a vast crowd was gathered below the city, by\nthe shore of the great river. Very many thousands were there, of many\ncountries and peoples, crowding down to see a man die, to see a traitor\nburnt to death for his sins, for there is nothing men like so much as to\nsee another man die.\n\nUpon a little headland jutting out into the river the pyre was raised,\nwith brushwood and straw, to burn quickly, and an iron post in the\nmiddle to which the man was to be chained. At one side was a place\nreserved, and presently down from the palace in a long procession came\nthe queen and her train of ladies to the place kept for her. Guards were\nput all about to prevent the people crowding; and then came the\nsoldiers, and in the midst of them the blacksmith; and amid many cries\nof 'Traitor, traitor!' and shouts of derision, he was bound to the iron\npost within the wood and the straw, and the guards fell back.\n\nThe queen sat and watched it all, and said never a word. Fire was put to\nthe pyre, and it crept rapidly up in long red tongues with coils of\nblack smoke. It went very quickly, for the wood was very dry, and a\nlight breeze came laughing up the river and helped it. The flames played\nabout the man chained there in the midst, and he made never a sign; only\nhe looked steadily across at the purple mountain where his home lay, and\nit was clear that in a few more moments he would be dead. There was a\ndeep silence everywhere.\n\nThen of a sudden, before anyone knew, before a hand could be held out to\nhinder her, the queen rose from her seat and ran to the pyre. In a\nmoment she was there and had thrown herself into the flames, and with\nher arms about her brother's neck she turned and faced the myriad eyes\nthat glared upon them--the queen, in all the glory of her beauty,\nglittering with gems, and the man with great shackled bare limbs,\ndressed in a few rags, his muscles already twisted with the agony of the\nfire. A great cry of horror came from the people, and there was the\nmovement of guards and officers rushing to stop the fire; but it was all\nof no use. A flash of red flames came out of the logs, folding these\ntwain like an imperial cloak, a whirl of sparks towered into the air,\nand when one could see again the woman and her brother were no longer\nthere. They were dead and burnt, and the bodies mingled with the ashes\nof the fire. She had cost her brother his life, and she went with him\ninto death.\n\n\nSome days after this a strange report was brought to the palace. By the\nlanding-place near the spot where the fire had been was a great\nfig-tree. It was so near to the landing-place, and was such a\nmagnificent tree, that travellers coming from the boats, or waiting for\na boat to arrive, would rest in numbers under its shade. But the report\nsaid that something had happened there. To travellers sleeping beneath\nthe tree at night it was stated that two Nats had appeared, very large\nand very beautiful, a man Nat and a woman Nat, and had frightened them\nvery much indeed. Noises were heard in the tree, voices and cries, and a\nstrange terror came upon those who approached it. Nay, it was even said\nthat men had been struck by unseen hands and severely hurt, and others,\nit was said, had disappeared. Children who went to play under the tree\nwere never seen again: the Nats took them, and their parents sought for\nthem in vain. So the landing-place was deserted, and a petition was\nbrought to the king, and the king gave orders that the tree should be\nhewn down. So the tree was cut down, and its trunk was thrown into the\nriver; it floated away out of sight, and nothing happened to the men\nwho cut the tree, though they were deadly afraid.\n\nThe tree floated down for days, until at last it stranded near a\nlanding-place that led to a large town, where the governor of these\nparts lived; and at this landing-place the portents that had frightened\nthe people at the great city reappeared and terrified the travellers\nhere too, and they petitioned the governor.\n\nThe governor sought out a great monk, a very holy man learned in these\nmatters, and sent him to inquire, and the monk came down to the tree and\nspoke. He said that if any Nats lived in the tree, they should speak to\nhim and tell him what they wanted. 'It is not fit,' he said, 'for great\nNats to terrify the poor villagers at the landing-place. Let the Nats\nspeak and say what they require. All that they want shall be given.' And\nthe Nats spake and said that they wanted a place to live in where they\ncould be at peace, and the monk answered for the governor that all his\nland was at their disposal. 'Let the Nats choose,' he said; 'all the\ncountry is before them.' So the Nats chose, and said that they would\nhave Popa Mountain, and the monk agreed.\n\nThe Nats then left the tree and went away, far away inland, to the great\nPopa Mountain, and took up their abode there, and all the people there\nfeared and reverenced them, and even made to their honour two statues\nwith golden heads and set them up on the mountain.\n\nThis is the story of the Popa Nats, the greatest Nats of all the\ncountry of Burma, the guardian spirits of the mysterious mountain. The\ngolden heads of the statues are now in one of our treasuries, put there\nfor safe custody during the troubles, though it is doubtful if even then\nanyone would have dared to steal them, so greatly are the Nats feared.\nAnd the hunters and the travellers there must offer to the Nats little\nofferings, if they would be safe in these forests, and even the young\nman must obtain permission from the Nats before he marry.\n\nI think these stories that I have told, stories selected from very many\nthat I have heard, will show what sort of spirits these are that the\nBurmese have peopled their trees and rivers with; will show what sort of\nreligion it is that underlies, without influencing, the creed of the\nBuddha that they follow. It is of the very poetry of superstition, free\nfrom brutality, from baseness, from anything repulsive, springing, as I\nhave said, from their innate sympathy with Nature and recognition of the\nlife that works in all things. It always seems to me that beliefs such\nas these are a great key to the nature of a people, are, apart from all\ninterest in their beauty, and in their akinness to other beliefs, of\ngreat value in trying to understand the character of a nation.\n\nFor to beings such as Nats and fairies the people who believe in them\nwill attribute such qualities as are predominant in themselves, as they\nconsider admirable; and, indeed, all supernatural beings are but the\nmagnified shadows of man cast by the light of his imagination upon the\nmists of his ignorance.\n\nTherefore, when you find that a people make their spirits beautiful and\nfair, calm and even tempered, loving peace and the beauty of the trees\nand rivers, shrinkingly averse from loud words, from noises, and from\nthe taking of life, it is because the people themselves think that these\nare great qualities. If no stress be laid upon their courage, their\nactivity, their performance of great deeds, it is because the people who\nimagine them care not for such things. There is no truer guide, I am\nsure, to the heart of a young people than their superstitions; these\nthey make entirely for themselves, apart from their religion, which is,\nto a certain extent, made for them. That is why I have written this\nchapter on Nats: not because I think it affects Buddhism very much one\nway or another, but because it seems to me to reveal the people\nthemselves, because it helps us to understand them better, to see more\nwith their eyes, to be in unison with their ideas--because it is a great\nkey to the soul of the people.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nDEATH, THE DELIVERER\n\n     'The end of my life is near at hand; seven days hence, like a man\n     who rids himself of a heavy load, I shall be free from the burden\n     of my body.'--_Death of the Buddha._\n\n\nThere is a song well known to all the Burmese, the words of which are\ntaken from the sacred writings. It is called the story of Ma Pa Da, and\nit was first told to me by a Burmese monk, long ago, when I was away on\nthe frontier.\n\nIt runs like this:\n\nIn the time of the Buddha, in the city of Thawatti, there was a certain\nrich man, a merchant, who had many slaves. Slaves in those days, and,\nindeed, generally throughout the East, were held very differently to\nslaves in Europe. They were part of the family, and were not saleable\nwithout good reason, and there was a law applicable to them. They were\nnot _hors de la loi_, like the slaves of which we have conception. There\nare many cases quoted of sisters being slaves to sisters, and of\nbrothers to brothers, quoted not for the purpose of saying that this\nwas an uncommon occurrence, but merely of showing points of law in such\ncases.\n\nOne day in the market the merchant bought another slave, a young man,\nhandsome and well mannered, and took him to his house, and kept him\nthere with his family and the other slaves. The young man was earnest\nand careful in his work, and the merchant approved of him, and his\nfellow-slaves liked him. But Ma Pa Da, the merchant's daughter, fell in\nlove with him. The slave was much troubled at this, and he did his best\nto avoid her; but he was a slave and under orders, and what could he do?\nWhen she would come to him secretly and make love to him, and say, 'Let\nus flee together, for we love each other,' he would refuse, saying that\nhe was a slave, and the merchant would be very angry. He said he could\nnot do such a thing. And yet when the girl said, 'Let us flee, for we\nlove each other,' he knew that it was true, and that he loved her as she\nloved him; and it was only his honour to his master that held him from\ndoing as she asked.\n\nBut because his heart was not of iron, and there are few men that can\nresist when a woman comes and woos them, he at last gave way; and they\nfled away one night, the girl and the slave, taking with them her jewels\nand some money. They travelled rapidly and in great fear, and did not\nrest till they came to a city far away where the merchant would never,\nthey thought, think of searching for them.\n\nHere, in this city where no one knew of their history, they lived in\ngreat happiness, husband and wife, trading with the money they had with\nthem.\n\nAnd in time a little child was born to them.\n\nAbout two or three years after this it became necessary for the husband\nto take a journey, and he started forth with his wife and child. The\njourney was a very long one, and they were unduly delayed; and so it\nhappened that while still in the forest the wife fell ill, and could not\ngo on any further. So the husband built a hut of branches and leaves,\nand there, in the solitude of the forest, was born to them another\nlittle son.\n\nThe mother recovered rapidly, and in a little time she was well enough\nto go on. They were to start next morning on their way again; and in the\nevening the husband went out, as was his custom, to cut firewood, for\nthe nights were cold and damp.\n\nMa Pa Da waited and waited for him, but he never came back.\n\nThe sun set and the dark rose out of the ground, and the forest became\nfull of whispers, but he never came. All night she watched and waited,\ncaring for her little ones, fearful to leave them alone, till at last\nthe gray light came down, down from the sky to the branches, and from\nthe branches to the ground, and she could see her way. Then, with her\nnew-born babe in her arms and the elder little fellow trotting by her\nside, she went out to search for her husband. Soon enough she found him,\nnot far off, stiff and cold beside his half-cut bundle of firewood. A\nsnake had bitten him on the ankle, and he was dead.\n\nSo Ma Pa Da was alone in the great forest, but a girl still, with two\nlittle children to care for.\n\nBut she was brave, despite her trouble, and she determined to go on and\ngain some village. She took her baby in her arms and the little one by\nthe hand, and started on her journey.\n\nAnd for a time all went well, till at last she came to a stream. It was\nnot very deep, but it was too deep for the little boy to wade, for it\ncame up to his neck, and his mother was not strong enough to carry both\nat once. So, after considering for a time, she told the elder boy to\nwait. She would cross and put the baby on the far side, and return for\nhim.\n\n'Be good,' she said; 'be good, and stay here quietly till I come back;'\nand the boy promised.\n\nThe stream was deeper and swifter than she thought; but she went with\ngreat care and gained the far side, and put the baby under a tree a\nlittle distance from the bank, to lie there while she went for the other\nboy. Then, after a few minutes' rest, she went back.\n\nShe had got to the centre of the stream, and her little boy had come\ndown to the margin to be ready for her, when she heard a rush and a cry\nfrom the side she had just left; and, looking round, she saw with terror\na great eagle sweep down upon the baby, and carry it off in its claws.\nShe turned round and waved her arms and cried out to the eagle, 'He!\nhe!' hoping it would be frightened and drop the baby. But it cared\nnothing for her cries or threats, and swept on with long curves over the\nforest trees, away out of sight.\n\nThen the mother turned to gain the bank once more, and suddenly she\nmissed her son who had been waiting for her. He had seen his mother wave\nher arms; he had heard her shout, and he thought she was calling him to\ncome to her. So the brave little man walked down into the water, and the\nblack current carried him off his feet at once. He was gone, drowned in\nthe deep water below the ford, tossing on the waves towards the sea.\n\nNo one can write of the despair of the girl when she threw herself under\na tree in the forest. The song says it was very terrible.\n\nAt last she said to herself, 'I will get up now and return to my father\nin Thawatti; he is all I have left. Though I have forsaken him all these\nyears, yet now that my husband and his children are dead, my father will\ntake me back again. Surely he will have pity on me, for I am much to be\npitied.'\n\nSo she went on, and at length, after many days, she came to the gates of\nthe great city where her father lived.\n\nAt the entering of the gates she met a large company of people,\nmourners, returning from a funeral, and she spoke to them and asked\nthem:\n\n'Who is it that you have been burying to-day so grandly with so many\nmourners?'\n\nAnd the people answered her, and told her who it was. And when she\nheard, she fell down upon the road as one dead: for it was her father\nand mother who had died yesterday, and it was their funeral train that\nshe saw. They were all dead now, husband and sons and father and mother;\nin all the world she was quite alone.\n\nSo she went mad, for her trouble was more than she could bear. She threw\noff all her clothes, and let down her long hair and wrapped it about her\nnaked body, and walked about raving.\n\nAt last she came to where the Buddha was teaching, seated under a\nfig-tree. She came up to the Buddha, and told him of her losses, and how\nshe had no one left; and she demanded of the Buddha that he should\nrestore to her those that she had lost. And the Buddha had great\ncompassion upon her, and tried to console her.\n\n'All die,' he said; 'it comes to everyone, king and peasant, animal and\nman. Only through many deaths can we obtain the Great Peace. All this\nsorrow,' he said, 'is of the earth. All this is passion which we must\nget rid of, and forget before we reach heaven. Be comforted, my\ndaughter, and turn to the holy life. All suffer as you do. It is part of\nour very existence here, sorrow and trouble without any end.'\n\nBut she would not be comforted, but demanded her dead of the Buddha.\nThen, because he saw it was no use talking to her, that her ears were\ndeaf with grief, and her eyes blinded with tears, he said to her that he\nwould restore to her those who were dead.\n\n'You must go,' he said, 'my daughter, and get some mustard-seed, a pinch\nof mustard-seed, and I can bring back their lives. Only you must get\nthis seed from the garden of him near whom death has never come. Get\nthis, and all will be well.'\n\nSo the woman went forth with a light heart. It was so simple, only a\npinch of mustard-seed, and mustard grew in every garden. She would get\nthe seed and be back very quickly, and then the Lord Buddha would give\nher back those she loved who had died. She clothed herself again and\ntied up her hair, and went cheerfully and asked at the first house,\n'Give me a pinch of mustard-seed,' and it was given readily. So with her\ntreasure in her hand she was going forth back to the Buddha full of\ndelight, when she remembered.\n\n'Has ever anyone died in your household?' she asked, looking round\nwistfully.\n\nThe man answered 'Yes,' that death had been with them but recently. Who\ncould this woman be, he thought, to ask such a question? And the woman\nwent forth, the seed dropping from her careless fingers, for it was of\nno value. So she would try again and again, but it was always the same.\nDeath had taken his tribute from all. Father or mother, son or brother,\ndaughter or wife, there was always a gap somewhere, a vacant place\nbeside the meal. From house to house throughout the city she went, till\nat last the new hope faded away, and she learned from the world, what\nshe had not believed from the Buddha, that death and life are one.\n\nSo she returned, and she became a nun, poor soul! taking on her the two\nhundred and twenty-seven vows, which are so hard to keep that nowadays\nnuns keep but five of them.[1]\n\n\nThis is the teaching of the Buddha, that death is inevitable; this is\nthe consolation he offers, that all men must know death; no one can\nescape death; no one can escape the sorrow of the death of those whom he\nloves. Death, he says, and life are one; not antagonistic, but the same;\nand the only way to escape from one is to escape from the other too.\nOnly in the Great Peace, when we have found refuge from the passion and\ntumult of life, shall we find the place where death cannot come. Life\nand death are one.\n\nThis is the teaching of the Buddha, repeated over and over again to his\ndisciples when they sorrowed for the death of Thariputra, when they\nwere in despair at the swift-approaching end of the great teacher\nhimself. Hear what he says to Ananda, the beloved disciple, who is\nmourning over Thariputra.\n\n'Ananda,' he said, 'often and often have I sought to bring shelter to\nyour soul from the misery caused by such grief as this. There are two\nthings alone that can separate us from father and mother, from brother\nand sister, from all those who are most cherished by us, and those two\nthings are distance and death. Think not that I, though the Buddha, have\nnot felt all this even as any other of you; was I not alone when I was\nseeking for wisdom in the wilderness?\n\n'And yet what would I have gained by wailing and lamenting either for\nmyself or for others? Would it have brought to me any solace from my\nloneliness? Would it have been any help to those whom I had left? There\nis nothing that can happen to us, however terrible, however miserable,\nthat can justify tears and lamentations and make them aught but a\nweakness.'\n\nAnd so, we are told, in this way the Buddha soothed the affliction of\nAnanda, and filled his soul with consolation--the consolation of\nresignation.\n\nFor there is no other consolation possible but this, resignation to the\ninevitable, the conviction of the uselessness of sorrow, the vanity and\nselfishness of grief.\n\nThere is no meeting again with the dead. Nowhere in the recurring\ncenturies shall we meet again those whom we have loved, whom we love,\nwho seem to us to be parts of our very soul. That which survives of us,\nthe part which is incarnated again and again, until it be fit for\nheaven, has nothing to do with love and hate.\n\nEven if in the whirlpool of life our paths should cross again the paths\nof those whom we have loved, we are never told that we shall know them\nagain and love them.\n\nA friend of mine has just lost his mother, and he is very much\ndistressed. He must have been very fond of her, for although he has a\nwife and children, and is happy in his family, he is in great sorrow. He\nproposes even to build a pagoda over her remains, a testimony of respect\nwhich in strict Buddhism is reserved to saints. He has been telling me\nabout this, and how he is trying to get a sacred relic to put in the\npagoda, and I asked him if he never hoped again to meet the soul of his\nmother on earth or in heaven, and he answered:\n\n'No. It is very hard, but so are many things, and they have to be borne.\nFar better it is to face the truth than to escape by a pleasant\nfalsehood. There is a Burmese proverb that tells us that all the world\nis one vast burial-ground; there are dead men everywhere.'\n\n'One of our great men has said the same,' I answered.\n\nHe was not surprised.\n\n'As it is true,' he said, 'I suppose all great men would see it.'\n\nThus there is no escape, no loophole for a delusive hope, only the\ncultivation of the courage of sorrow.\n\nThere are never any exceptions to the laws of the Buddha. If a law is a\nlaw, that is the end of it. Just as we know of no exceptions to the law\nof gravitation, so there are no exceptions to the law of death.\n\nBut although this may seem to be a religion of despair, it is not really\nso. This sorrow to which there is no relief is the selfishness of\nsorrow, the grief for our own loneliness; for of sorrow, of fear, of\npity for the dead, there is no need. We know that in time all will be\nwell with them. We know that, though there may be before them vast\nperiods of suffering, yet that they will all at last be in Nebhan with\nus. And if we shall not know them there, still we shall know that they\nare there, all of them--not one will be wanting. Purified from the lust\nof life, white souls steeped in the Great Peace, all living things will\nattain rest at last.\n\n\nThere is this remarkable fact in Buddhism, that nowhere is any fear\nexpressed of death itself, nowhere any apprehension of what may happen\nto the dead. It is the sorrow of separation, the terror of death to the\nsurvivors, that is always dwelt upon with compassion, and the agony of\nwhich it is sought to soothe.\n\nThat the dying man himself should require strengthening to face the King\nof Terrors is hardly ever mentioned. It seems to be taken for granted\nthat men should have courage in themselves to take leave of life\nbecomingly, without undue fears. Buddhism is the way to show us the\nescape from the miseries of life, not to give us hope in the hour of\ndeath.\n\nIt is true that to all Orientals death is a less fearful thing than it\nis to us. I do not know what may be the cause of this, courage certainly\nhas little to do with it; but it is certain that the purely physical\nfear of death, that horror and utter revulsion that seizes the majority\nof us at the idea of death, is absent from most Orientals. And yet this\ncannot explain it all. For fear of death, though less, is still there,\nis still a strong influence upon their lives, and it would seem that no\nreligion which ignored this great fact could become a great living\nreligion.\n\nReligion is made for man, to fit his necessities, not man for religion,\nand yet the faith of Buddhism is not concerned with death.\n\nConsider our faith, how much of its teaching consists of how to avoid\nthe fear of death, how much of its consolation is for the death-bed. How\nwe are taught all our lives that we should live so as not to fear death;\nhow we have priests and sacraments to soothe the dying man, and give\nhim hope and courage, and how the crown and summit of our creed is that\nwe should die easily. And consider that in Buddhism all this is\nabsolutely wanting. Buddhism is a creed of life, of conduct; death is\nthe end of that life, that is all.\n\nWe have all seen death. We have all of us watched those who, near and\ndear to us, go away out of our ken. There is no need for me to recall\nthe last hours of those of our faith, to bring up again the fading eye\nand waning breath, the messages of hope we search for in our Scriptures\nto give hope to him who is going, the assurances of religion, the cross\nheld before the dying eyes.\n\nMany men, we are told, turn to religion at the last after a life of\nwickedness, and a man may do so even at the eleventh hour and be saved.\n\nThat is part of our belief; that is the strongest part of our belief;\nand that is the hope that all fervent Christians have, that those they\nlove may be saved even at the end.\n\nI think it may truly be said that our Western creeds are all directed at\nthe hour of death, as the great and final test of that creed.\n\nAnd now think of Buddhism; it is a creed of life. In life you must win\nyour way to salvation by urgent effort, by suffering, by endurance. On\nyour death-bed you can do nothing. If you have done well, then it is\nwell; if ill, then you must in future life try again and again till you\nsucceed. A life is not washed, a soul is not made fit for the dwelling\nof eternity, in a moment.\n\nRepentance to a Buddhist is but the opening of the eyes to see the path\nto righteousness; it has no virtue in itself. To have seen that we are\nsinners is but the first step to cleansing our sin; in itself it cannot\npurify.\n\nAs well ask a robber of the poor to repent, and suppose thereby that\nthose who have suffered from his guilt are compensated for the evil done\nto them by his repentance, as to ask a Buddhist to believe that a sinner\ncan at the last moment make good to his own soul all the injuries caused\nto that soul by the wickedness of his life.\n\nOr suppose a man who has destroyed his constitution by excess to be by\nthe very fact of acknowledging that excess restored to health.\n\nThe Buddhist will not have that at all. A man is what he makes himself;\nand that making is a matter of terrible effort, of unceasing endeavour\ntowards the right, of constant suppression of sin, till sin be at last\ndead within him. If a man has lived a wicked life, he dies a wicked man,\nand no wicked man can obtain the perfect rest of the sinless dead.\nHeaven is shut to him. But if heaven is shut it is not shut for ever; if\nhell may perhaps open to him it is only for a time, only till he is\npurified and washed from the stain of his sins; and then he can begin\nagain, and have another chance to win heaven. If there is no immediate\nheaven there is no eternal hell, and in due time all will reach heaven;\nall will have learnt, through suffering, the wisdom the Buddha has shown\nto us, that only by a just life can men reach the Great Peace even as he\ndid.\n\nSo that if Buddhism has none of the consolation for the dying man that\nChristianity holds out, in the hope of heaven, so it has none of the\nthreats and terrors of our faith. There is no fear of an angry Judge--of\na Judge who is angry.\n\nAnd yet when I came to think over the matter, it seemed to me that\nsurely there must be something to calm him in the face of death. If\nBuddhism does not furnish this consolation, he must go elsewhere for it.\nAnd I was not satisfied, because I could find nothing in the sacred\nbooks about a man's death, that therefore the creed of the people had\nignored it. A living creed must, I was sure, provide for this somehow.\n\nSo I went to a friend of mine, a Burman magistrate, and I asked him:\n\n'When a man is dying, what does he try to think of? What do you say to\ncomfort him that his last moments may be peace? The monks do not come, I\nknow.'\n\n'The monks!' he said, shaking his head; 'what could they do?'\n\nI did not know.\n\n'Can you do anything,' I asked, 'to cheer him? Do you speak to him of\nwhat may happen after death, of hopes of another life?'\n\n'No one can tell,' said my friend, 'what will happen after death. It\ndepends on a man's life, if he has done good or evil, what his next\nexistence will be, whether he will go a step nearer to the Peace. When\nthe man is dying no monks will come, truly; but an old man, an old\nfriend, father, perhaps, or an elder of the village, and he will talk to\nthe dying man. He will say, \"Think of your good deeds; think of all that\nyou have done well in this life. Think of your good deeds.\"'\n\n'What is the use of that?' I asked. 'Suppose you think of your good\ndeeds, what then? Will that bring peace?'\n\nThe Burman seemed to think that it would.\n\n'Nothing,' he said, 'was so calming to a man's soul as to think of even\none deed he had done well in his life.'\n\nThink of the man dying. The little house built of bamboo and thatch,\nwith an outer veranda, where the friends are sitting, and the inner\nroom, behind a wall of bamboo matting, where the man is lying. A pot of\nflowers is standing on a shelf on one side, and a few cloths are hung\nhere and there beneath the brown rafters. The sun comes in through\nlittle chinks in roof and wall, making curious lights in the\nsemi-darkness of the room, and it is very hot.\n\nFrom outside come the noises of the village, cries of children playing,\ngrunts of cattle, voices of men and women clearly heard through the\nstill clear air of the afternoon. There is a woman pounding rice near\nby with a steady thud, thud of the lever, and there is a clink of a loom\nwhere a girl is weaving ceaselessly. All these sounds come into the\nhouse as if there were no walls at all, but they are unheeded from long\ncustom.\n\nThe man lies on a low bed with a fine mat spread under him for bedding.\nHis wife, his grown-up children, his sister, his brother are about him,\nfor the time is short, and death comes very quickly in the East. They\ntalk to him kindly and lovingly, but they read to him no sacred books;\nthey give him no messages from the world to which he is bound; they\nwhisper to him no hopes of heaven. He is tortured with no fears of\neverlasting hell. Yet life is sweet and death is bitter, and it is hard\nto go; and as he tosses to and fro in his fever there comes in to him an\nold friend, the headman of the village perhaps, with a white muslin\nfillet bound about his kind old head, and he sits beside the dying man\nand speaks to him.\n\n'Remember,' he says slowly and clearly, 'all those things that you have\ndone well. Think of your good deeds.'\n\nAnd as the sick man turns wearily, trying to move his thoughts as he is\nbidden, trying to direct the wheels of memory, the old man helps him to\nremember.\n\n'Think,' he says, 'of your good deeds, of how you have given charity to\nthe monks, of how you have fed the poor. Remember how you worked and\nsaved to build the little rest-house in the forest where the traveller\nstays and finds water for his thirst. All these are pleasant things, and\nmen will always be grateful to you. Remember your brother, how you\nhelped him in his need, how you fed him and went security for him till\nhe was able again to secure his own living. You did well to him, surely\nthat is a pleasant thing.'\n\nI do not think it difficult to see how the sick man's face will lighten,\nhow his eyes will brighten at the thoughts that come to him at the old\nman's words. And he goes on:\n\n'Remember when the squall came up the river and the boat upset when you\nwere crossing here; how it seemed as if no man could live alone in such\nwaves, and yet how you clung to and saved the boy who was with you,\nswimming through the water that splashed over your head and very nearly\ndrowned you. The boy's father and mother have never forgotten that, and\nthey are even now mourning without in the veranda. It is all due to you\nthat their lives have not been full of misery and despair. Remember\ntheir faces when you brought their little son to them saved from death\nin the great river. Surely that is a pleasant thing. Remember your wife\nwho is now with you; how you have loved her and cherished her, and kept\nfaithful to her before all the world. You have been a good husband to\nher, and you have honoured her. She loves you, and you have loved her\nall your long life together. Surely that is a pleasant thing.'\n\nYes, surely these are pleasant things to have with one at the last.\nSurely a man will die easier with such memories as these before his\neyes, with love in those about him, and the calm of good deeds in his\ndying heart. If it be a different way of soothing a man's end from those\nwhich other nations use, is it the worse for that?\n\nThink of your good deeds. It seems a new idea to me that in doing well\nin our life we are making for ourselves a pleasant death, because of the\nmemory of those things. And if we have none? or if evil so outnumbered\nthe good deeds as to hide and overwhelm them, what then? A man's death\nwill be terrible indeed if he cannot in all his days remember one good\ndeed that he has done.\n\n'All a man's life comes before him at the hour of death,' said my\ninformant; 'all, from the earliest memory to the latest breath. Like a\nwhole landscape called by a flash of lightning out of the dark night. It\nis all there, every bit of it, good and evil, pleasure and pain, sin and\nrighteousness.'\n\nA man cannot escape from his life even in death. In our acts of to-day\nwe are determining what our death will be; if we have lived well, we\nshall die well; and if not, then not. As a man lives so shall he die, is\nthe teaching of Buddhism as of other creeds.\n\nSo what Buddhism has to offer to the dying believer is this, that if he\nlive according to its tenets he will die happily, and that in the life\nthat he will next enter upon he will be less and less troubled by sin,\nless and less wedded to the lust of life, until sometime, far away, he\nshall gain the great Deliverance. He shall have perfect Peace, perfect\nrest, perfect happiness, he and his, in that heaven where his teacher\nwent before him long ago.\n\nAnd if we should say that this Deliverance from life, this Great Peace,\nis Death, what matter, if it be indeed Peace?\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[1] These five vows are:\n\n     1. Not to take life.\n     2. To be honest.\n     3. To tell the truth.\n     4. To abstain from intoxicants.\n     5. Chastity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nTHE POTTER'S WHEEL\n\n     'Life is like a great whirlpool wherein we are dashed to and fro by\n     our passions.'--_Saying of the Buddha._\n\n\nIt is a hard teaching, this of the Buddha about death. It is a teaching\nthat may appeal to the reason, but not to the soul, that when life goes\nout, this thing which we call 'I' goes out with it, and that love and\nremembrance are dead for ever.\n\nIt is so hard a teaching that in its purity the people cannot believe\nit. They accept it, but they have added on to it a belief which changes\nthe whole form of it, a belief that is the outcome of that weakness of\nhumanity which insists that death is not and cannot be all.\n\nThough to the strict Buddhist death is the end of all worldly passion,\nto the Burmese villager that is not so. He cannot grasp, he cannot\nendure that it should be so, and he has made for himself out of Buddhism\na belief that is opposed to all Buddhism in this matter.\n\nHe believes in the transmigration of souls, in the survival of the 'I.'\nThe teaching that what survives is not the 'I,' but only the result of\nits action, is too deep for him to hold. True, if a flame dies the\neffects that it has caused remain, and the flame is dead for ever. A new\nflame is a new flame. But the 'I' of man cannot die, he thinks; it lives\nand loves for all time.\n\nHe has made out of the teaching a new teaching that is very far from\nthat of the Buddha, and the teaching is this: When a man dies his soul\nremains, his 'I' has only changed its habitation. Still it lives and\nbreathes on earth, not the effect, but the soul itself. It is reborn\namong us, and it may even be recognised very often in its new abode.\n\nAnd that we should never forget this, that we should never doubt that\nthis is true, it has been so ordered that many can remember something of\nthese former lives of theirs. This belief is not to a Burman a mere\ntheory, but is as true as anything he can see. For does he not daily see\npeople who know of their former lives? Nay, does he not himself, often\nvaguely, have glimpses of that former life of his? No man seems to be\nquite without it, but of course it is clearer to some than others. Just\nas we tell stories in the dusk of ghosts and second sight, so do they,\nwhen the day's work is over, gossip of stories of second birth; only\nthat they believe in them far more than we do in ghosts.\n\nA friend of mine put up for the night once at a monastery far away in\nthe forest near a small village. He was travelling with an escort of\nmounted police, and there was no place else to sleep but in the\nmonastery. The monk was, as usual, hospitable, and put what he had, bare\nhouse-room, at the officer's disposal, and he and his men settled down\nfor the night.\n\nAfter dinner a fire was built on the ground, and the officer went and\nsat by it and talked to the headman of the village and the monk. First\nthey talked of the dacoits and of crops, unfailing subjects of interest,\nand gradually they drifted from one subject to another till the\nEnglishman remarked about the monastery, that it was a very large and\nfine one for such a small secluded village to have built. The monastery\nwas of the best and straightest teak, and must, he thought, have taken a\nvery long time and a great deal of labour to build, for the teak must\nhave been brought from very far away; and in explanation he was told a\ncurious story.\n\nIt appeared that in the old days there used to be only a bamboo and\ngrass monastery there, such a monastery as most jungle villages have;\nand the then monk was distressed at the smallness of his abode and the\nlittle accommodation there was for his school--a monastery is always a\nschool. So one rainy season he planted with great care a number of teak\nseedlings round about, and he watered them and cared for them. 'When\nthey are grown up,' he would say, 'these teak-trees shall provide\ntimber for a new and proper building; and I will myself return in\nanother life, and with those trees will I build a monastery more worthy\nthan this.' Teak-trees take a hundred years to reach a mature size, and\nwhile the trees were still but saplings the monk died, and another monk\ntaught in his stead. And so it went on, and the years went by, and from\ntime to time new monasteries of bamboo were built and rebuilt, and the\nteak-trees grew bigger and bigger. But the village grew smaller, for the\ntimes were troubled, and the village was far away in the forest. So it\nhappened that at last the village found itself without a monk at all:\nthe last monk was dead, and no one came to take his place.\n\nIt is a serious thing for a village to have no monk. To begin with,\nthere is no one to teach the lads to read and write and do arithmetic;\nand there is no one to whom you can give offerings and thereby get\nmerit, and there is no one to preach to you and tell you of the sacred\nteaching. So the village was in a bad way.\n\nThen at last one evening, when the girls were all out at the well\ndrawing water, they were surprised by the arrival of a monk walking in\nfrom the forest, weary with a long journey, footsore and hungry. The\nvillagers received him with enthusiasm, fearing, however, that he was\nbut passing through, and they furbished up the old monastery in a hurry\nfor him to sleep in. But the curious thing was that the monk seemed to\nknow it all. He knew the monastery and the path to it, and the ways\nabout the village, and the names of the hills and the streams. It\nseemed, indeed, as if he must once have lived there in the village, and\nyet no one knew him or recognised his face, though he was but a young\nman still, and there were villagers who had lived there for seventy\nyears. Next morning, instead of going on his way, the monk came into the\nvillage with his begging-bowl, as monks do, and went round and collected\nhis food for the day; and in the evening, when the villagers went to see\nhim at the monastery, he told them he was going to stay. He recalled to\nthem the monk who had planted the teak-trees, and how he had said that\nwhen the trees were grown he would return. 'I,' said the young monk, 'am\nhe that planted these trees. Lo, they are grown up, and I am returned,\nand now we will build a monastery as I said.'\n\nWhen the villagers, doubting, questioned him, and old men came and\ntalked to him of traditions of long-past days, he answered as one who\nknew all. He told them he had been born and educated far away in the\nSouth, and had grown up not knowing who he had been; and that he had\nentered a monastery, and in time became a Pongyi. The remembrance came\nto him, he went on, in a dream of how he had planted the trees and had\npromised to return to that village far away in the forest.\n\nThe very next day he had started, and travelled day after day and week\nupon week, till at length he had arrived, as they saw. So the villagers\nwere convinced, and they set to work and cut down the great boles, and\nbuilt the monastery such as my friend saw. And the monk lived there all\nhis life, and taught the children, and preached the marvellous teaching\nof the great Buddha, till at length his time came again and he returned;\nfor of monks it is not said that they die, but that they return.\n\nThis is the common belief of the people. Into this has the mystery of\nDharma turned, in the thoughts of the Burmese Buddhists, for no one can\nbelieve the incomprehensible. A man has a soul, and it passes from life\nto life, as a traveller from inn to inn, till at length it is ended in\nheaven. But not till he has attained heaven in his heart will he attain\nheaven in reality.\n\nMany children, the Burmese will tell you, remember their former lives.\nAs they grow older the memories die away and they forget, but to the\nyoung children they are very clear. I have seen many such.\n\nAbout fifty years ago in a village named Okshitgon were born two\nchildren, a boy and a girl. They were born on the same day in\nneighbouring houses, and they grew up together, and played together, and\nloved each other. And in due course they married and started a family,\nand maintained themselves by cultivating their dry, barren fields about\nthe village. They were always known as devoted to each other, and they\ndied as they had lived--together. The same death took them on the same\nday; so they were buried without the village and were forgotten; for the\ntimes were serious.\n\nIt was the year after the English army had taken Mandalay, and all Burma\nwas in a fury of insurrection. The country was full of armed men, the\nroads were unsafe, and the nights were lighted with the flames of\nburning villages. It was a bad time for peace-loving men, and many such,\nfleeing from their villages, took refuge in larger places nearer the\ncentres of administration.\n\nOkshitgon was in the midst of one of the worst of all the distressed\ndistricts, and many of its people fled, and one of them, a man named\nMaung Kan, with his young wife went to the village of Kabyu and lived\nthere.\n\nNow, Maung Kan's wife had born to him twin sons. They were born at\nOkshitgon shortly before their parents had to run away, and they were\nnamed, the eldest Maung Gyi, which is Brother Big-fellow, and the\nyounger Maung Nge, which means Brother Little-fellow. These lads grew up\nat Kabyu, and soon learned to talk; and as they grew up their parents\nwere surprised to hear them calling to each other at play, and calling\neach other, not Maung Gyi and Maung Nge, but Maung San Nyein and Ma\nGywin. The latter is a woman's name, and the parents remembered that\nthese were the names of the man and wife who had died in Okshitgon about\nthe time the children were born.\n\nSo the parents thought that the souls of the man and wife had entered\ninto the children, and they took them to Okshitgon to try them. The\nchildren knew everything in Okshitgon; they knew the roads and the\nhouses and the people, and they recognised the clothes they used to wear\nin a former life; there was no doubt about it. One of them, the younger,\nremembered, too, how she had borrowed two rupees once of a woman, Ma\nThet, unknown to her husband, and left the debt unpaid. Ma Thet was\nstill living, and so they asked her, and she recollected that it was\ntrue she had lent the money long ago.\n\nShortly afterwards I saw these two children. They are now just over six\nyears old. The elder, into whom the soul of the man entered, is a fat,\nchubby little fellow, but the younger twin is smaller, and has a curious\ndreamy look in his face, more like a girl than a boy. They told me much\nabout their former lives. After they died they said they lived for some\ntime without a body at all, wandering in the air and hiding in the\ntrees. This was for their sins. Then, after some months, they were born\nagain as twin boys. 'It used,' said the elder boy, 'to be so clear, I\ncould remember everything; but it is getting duller and duller, and I\ncannot now remember as I used to do.'\n\nOf children such as this you may find any number. Only you have to look\nfor them, as they are not brought forward spontaneously. The Burmese,\nlike other people, hate to have their beliefs and ideas ridiculed, and\nfrom experience they have learned that the object of a foreigner in\ninquiring into their ways is usually to be able to show by his contempt\nhow very much cleverer a man he is than they are. Therefore they are\nvery shy. But once they understand that you only desire to learn and to\nsee, and that you will always treat them with courtesy and\nconsideration, they will tell you all that they think.\n\nA fellow officer of mine has a Burmese police orderly, a young man about\ntwenty, who has been with him since he came to the district two years\nago. Yet my friend only discovered accidentally the other day that his\norderly remembers his former life. He is very unwilling to talk about\nit. He was a woman apparently in that former life, and lived about\ntwenty miles away. He must have lived a good life, for it is a step of\npromotion to be a man in this life; but he will not talk of it. He\nforgets most of it, he says, though he remembered it when he was a\nchild.\n\nSometimes this belief leads to lawsuits of a peculiarly difficult\nnature. In 1883, two years before the annexation of Upper Burma, there\nwas a case that came into the local Court of the oil district, which\ndepended upon this theory of transmigration.\n\nOpposite Yenangyaung there are many large islands in the river. These\nislands during the low water months are joined to the mainland, and are\ncovered with a dense high grass in which many deer live.\n\nWhen the river rises, it rises rapidly, communication with the mainland\nis cut off, and the islands are for a time, in the higher rises,\nentirely submerged. During the progress of the first rise some hunters\nwent to one of these islands where many deer were to be found and set\nfire to the grass to drive them out of cover, shooting them as they came\nout. Some deer, fleeing before the fire, swam across and escaped, others\nfell victims, but one fawn, barely half grown, ran right down the\nisland, and in its blind terror it leaped into a boat at anchor there.\nThis boat was that of a fisherman who was plying his trade at some\ndistance, and the only occupant of the boat was his wife. Now this woman\nhad a year or so before lost her son, very much loved by her, but who\nwas not quite of the best character, and when she saw the deer leaping\ninto the boat, she at once fancied that she saw the soul of her erring\nson looking at her out of its great terrified eyes. So she got up and\ntook the poor panting beast in her arms and soothed it, and when the\nhunters came running to her to claim it she refused. 'He is my son,' she\nsaid, 'he is mine. Shall I give him up to death?' The hunters clamoured\nand threatened to take the deer by force, but the woman was quite firm.\nShe would never give him up except with her life. 'You can see,' she\nsaid, 'that it is true that he is my son. He came running straight to\nme, as he always did in his trouble when he was a boy, and he is now\nquite quiet and contented, instead of being afraid of me as an ordinary\ndeer would be.' And it was quite true that the deer took to her at once,\nand remained with her willingly. So the hunters went off to the court of\nthe governor and filed a suit for the deer.\n\nThe case was tried in open court, and the deer was produced with a\nribbon round its neck. Evidence there was naturally but little. The\nhunters claimed the deer because they had driven it out of the island by\ntheir fire. The woman resisted the claim on the ground that it was her\nson.\n\nThe decision of the court was this:\n\n'The hunters are not entitled to the deer because they cannot prove that\nthe woman's son's soul is not in the animal. The woman is not entitled\nto the deer because she cannot prove that it is. The deer will therefore\nremain with the court until some properly authenticated claim is put\nin.'\n\nSo the two parties were turned out, the woman in bitter tears, and the\nhunters angry and vexed, and the deer remained the property of the\njudge.\n\nBut this decision was against all Burmese ideas of justice. He should\nhave given the deer to the woman. 'He wanted it for himself,' said a\nBurman, speaking to me of the affair. 'He probably killed it and ate it.\nSurely it is true that officials are of all the five evils the\ngreatest.' Then my friend remembered that I was myself an official, and\nhe looked foolish, and began to make complimentary remarks about English\nofficials, that they would never give such an iniquitous decision. I\nturned it off by saying that no doubt the judge was now suffering in\nsome other life for the evil wrought in the last, and the Burman said\nthat probably he was now inhabiting a tiger.\n\nIt is very easy to laugh at such beliefs; nothing is, indeed, easier\nthan to be witty at the expense of any belief. It is also very easy to\nsay that it is all self-deception, that the children merely imagine that\nthey remember their former lives, or are citing conversation of their\nelders.\n\nHow this may be I do not know. What is the explanation of this, perhaps\nthe only belief of which we have any knowledge which is at once a living\nbelief to-day and was so as far back as we can get, I do not pretend to\nsay. For transmigration is no theory of Buddhism at all, but was a\nleading tenet in the far older faith of Brahmanism, of which Buddhism\nwas but an offshoot, as was Christianity of Judaism.\n\nI have not, indeed, always attempted to reach the explanation of things\nI have seen. When I have satisfied myself that a belief is really held\nby the people, that I am not the subject of conscious deception, either\nby myself or others, I have conceived that my work was ended.\n\nThere are those who, in investigating any foreign customs and strange\nbeliefs, can put their finger here and say, 'This is where they are\nright'; and there and say, 'This belief is foolishly wrong and idiotic.'\nI am not, unfortunately, one of these writers. I have no such confident\nbelief in my own infallibility of judgment as to be able to sit on high\nand say, 'Here is truth, and here is error.'\n\nI will leave my readers to make their own judgment, if they desire to do\nso; only asking them (as they would not like their own beliefs to be\nscoffed and sneered at) that they will treat with respect the sincere\nbeliefs of others, even if they cannot accept them. It is only in this\nway that we can come to understand a people and to sympathize with them.\n\nIt is hardly necessary to emphasize the enormous effect that a belief in\ntransmigration such as this has upon the life and intercourse of the\npeople. Of their kindness to animals I have spoken elsewhere, and it is\npossible this belief in transmigration has something to do with it, but\nnot, I think, much. For if you wished to illtreat an animal, it would be\nquite easy, even more easy, to suppose that an enemy or a murderer\ninhabited the body of the animal, and that you were but carrying out the\ndecrees of fate by ill-using it. But when you love an animal, it may\nincrease that love and make it reasonable, and not a thing to be ashamed\nof; and it brings the animal world nearer to you in general, it bridges\nover the enormous void between man and beast that other religions have\nmade. Nothing humanizes a man more than love of animals.\n\nI do not know if this be a paradox, I know that it is a truth.\n\nThere was one point that puzzled me for a time in some of these stories\nof transmigration, such as the one I told about the man and wife being\nreborn twins. It was this: A man dies and leaves behind children, let us\nsay, to whom he is devoutly attached. He is reborn in another family in\nthe same village, maybe. It would be natural to suppose that he would\nlove his former family as much as, or even more than, his new one.\nComplications might arise in this way which it is easy to conceive would\ncause great and frequent difficulties.\n\nI explained this to a Burman one day, and asked him what happened, and\nthis is what he said: 'The affection of mother to son, of husband to\nwife, of brother to sister, belongs entirely to the body in which you\nmay happen to be living. When it dies, so do these affections. New\naffections arise from the new body. The flesh of the son, being of one\nwith his father, of course loves him; but as his present flesh has no\nsort of connection with his former one, he does not love those to whom\nhe was related in his other lives. These affections are as much a part\nof the body as the hand or the eyesight; with one you put off the\nother.'\n\nThus all love, to the learned, even the purest affection of daughter to\nmother, of man to his friend, is in theory a function of the body--with\nthe one we put off the other; and this may explain, perhaps, something\nof what my previous chapter did not make quite clear, that in the\nhereafter[2] of Buddhism there is no affection.\n\nWhen we have put off all bodies, when we have attained Nirvana, love and\nhate, desire and repulsion, will have fallen from us for ever.\n\nMeanwhile, in each life, we are obliged to endure the affections of the\nbody into which we may be born. It is the first duty of a monk, of him\nwho is trying to lead the purer life, to kill all these affections, or\nrather to blend them into one great compassion to all the world alike.\n'Gayuena,' compassion, that is the only passion that will be left to\nus. So say the learned.\n\nI met a little girl not long ago, a wee little maiden about seven years\nold, and she told me all about her former life when she was a man. Her\nname was Maung Mon, she said, and she used to work the dolls in a\ntravelling marionette show. It was through her knowledge and partiality\nfor marionettes that it was first suspected, her parents told me, whom\nshe had been in her former life. She could even as a sucking-child\nmanipulate the strings of a marionette-doll. But the actual discovery\ncame when she was about four years old, and she recognised a certain\nmarionette booth and dolls as her own. She knew all about them, knew\nthe name of each doll, and even some of the words they used to say in\nthe plays. 'I was married four times,' she told me. 'Two wives died, one\nI divorced; one was living when I died, and is living still. I loved her\nvery much indeed. The one I divorced was a dreadful woman. See,'\npointing to a scar on her shoulder, 'this was given me once in a\nquarrel. She took up a chopper and cut me like this. Then I divorced\nher. She had a dreadful temper.'\n\nIt was immensely quaint to hear this little thing discoursing like this.\nThe mark was a birth-mark, and I was assured that it corresponded\nexactly with one that had been given to the man by his wife in just such\na quarrel as the one the little girl described.\n\nThe divorced wife and the much-loved wife are still alive and not yet\nold. The last wife wanted the little girl to go and live with her. I\nasked her why she did not go.\n\n'You loved her so much,' I said. 'She was such a good wife to you.\nSurely you would like to live with her again.'\n\n'But all that,' she replied, 'was in a former life.'\n\nNow she loved only her present father and mother. The last life was like\na dream. Broken memories of it still remained, but the loves and hates,\nthe passions and impulses, were all dead.\n\nAnother little boy told me once that the way remembrance came to him was\nby seeing the silk he used to wear made into curtains, which are given\nto the monks and used as partitions in their monasteries, and as walls\nto temporary erections made at festival times. He was taken when some\nthree years old to a feast at the making of a lad, the son of a wealthy\nmerchant, into a monk. There he recognised in the curtain walling in\npart of the bamboo building his old dress. He pointed it out at once.\n\nThis same little fellow told me that he passed three months between his\ndeath and his next incarnation without a body. This was because he had\nonce accidentally killed a fowl. Had he killed it on purpose, he would\nhave been punished very much more severely. Most of this three months he\nspent dwelling in the hollow shell of a palm-fruit. The nuisance was, he\nexplained, that this shell was close to the cattle-path, and that the\nlads as they drove the cattle afield in the early morning would bang\nwith a stick against the shell. This made things very uncomfortable for\nhim inside.\n\nIt is not an uncommon thing for a woman when about to be delivered of a\nbaby to have a dream, and to see in that dream the spirit of someone\nasking for permission to enter the unborn child; for, to a certain\nextent, it lies within a woman's power to say who is to be the life of\nher child.\n\nThere was a woman once who loved a young man, not of her village, very\ndearly. And he loved her, too, as dearly as she loved him, and he\ndemanded her in marriage from her parents; but they refused. Why they\nrefused I do not know, but probably because they did not consider the\nyoung man a proper person for their daughter to marry. Then he tried to\nrun away with her, and nearly succeeded, but they were caught before\nthey got clear of the village.\n\nThe young man had to leave the neighbourhood. The attempted abduction of\na girl is an offence severely punishable by law, so he fled; and in\ntime, under pressure from her people, the girl married another man; but\nshe never forgot. She lived with her husband quite happily; he was good\nto her, as most Burmese husbands are, and they got along well enough\ntogether. But there were no children.\n\nAfter some years, four or five, I believe, the former lover returned to\nhis village. He thought that after this lapse of time he would be safe\nfrom prosecution, and he was, moreover, very ill.\n\nHe was so ill that very soon he died, without ever seeing again the girl\nhe was so fond of; and when she heard of his death she was greatly\ndistressed, so that the desire of life passed away from her. It so\nhappened that at this very time she found herself enceinte with her\nfirst child, and not long before the due time came for the child to be\nborn she had a dream.\n\nShe dreamt that her soul left her body, and went out into space and met\nthere the soul of her lover who had died. She was rejoiced to meet him\nagain, full of delight, so that the return of her soul to her body, her\nawakening to a world in which he was not, filled her with despair. So\nshe prayed her lover, if it was now time for him again to be incarnated,\nthat he would come to her--that his soul would enter the body of the\nlittle baby soon about to be born, so that they two might be together in\nlife once more.\n\nAnd in the dream the lover consented. He would come, he said, into the\nchild of the woman he loved.\n\nWhen the woman awoke she remembered it all, and the desire of life\nreturned to her again, and all the world was changed because of the new\nlife she felt within her. But she told no one then of the dream or of\nwhat was to happen.\n\nOnly she took the greatest care of herself; she ate well, and went\nfrequently to the pagoda with flowers, praying that the body in which\nher lover was about to dwell might be fair and strong, worthy of him who\ntook it, worthy of her who gave it.\n\nIn due time the baby was born. But alas and alas for all her hopes! The\nbaby came but for a moment, to breathe a few short breaths, to cry, and\nto die; and a few hours later the woman died also. But before she went\nshe told someone all about it, all about the dream and the baby, and\nthat she was glad to go and follow her lover. She said that her baby's\nsoul was her lover's soul, and that as he could not stay, neither would\nshe; and with these words on her lips she followed him out into the\nvoid.\n\nThe story was kept a secret until the husband died, not long\nafterwards; but when I came to the village all the people knew it.\n\nI must confess that this story is to me full of the deepest reality,\nfull of pathos. It seems to me to be the unconscious protestation of\nhumanity against the dogmas of religion and of the learned. However it\nmay be stated that love is but one of the bodily passions that dies with\nit; however, even in some of the stories themselves, this explanation is\nused to clear certain difficulties; however opposed eternal love may be\nto one of the central doctrines of Buddhism, it seems to me that the\nvery essence of this story is the belief that love does not die with the\nbody, that it lives for ever and ever, through incarnation after\nincarnation. Such a story is the very cry of the agony of humanity.\n\n'Love is strong as death; many waters cannot quench love;' ay, and love\nis stronger than death. Not any dogmas of any religion, not any\nphilosophy, nothing in this world, nothing in the next, shall prevent\nhim who loves from the certainty of rejoining some time the soul he\nloves.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[2] The hereafter = the state to which we attain when we have\ndone with earthly things.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nTHE FOREST OF TIME\n\n     'The gate of that forest was Death.'\n\n\nThere was a great forest. It was full of giant trees that grew so high\nand were so thick overhead that the sunshine could not get down below.\nAnd there were huge creepers that ran from tree to tree climbing there,\nand throwing down great loops of rope. Under the trees, growing along\nthe ground, were smaller creepers full of thorns, that tore the wayfarer\nand barred his progress. The forest, too, was full of snakes that crept\nalong the ground, so like in their gray and yellow skins to the earth\nthey travelled on that the traveller trod upon them unawares and was\nbitten; and some so beautiful with coral red and golden bars that men\nwould pick them up as some dainty jewel till the snake turned upon them.\n\nHere and there in this forest were little glades wherein there were\nflowers. Beautiful flowers they were, with deep white cups and broad\nglossy leaves hiding the purple fruit; and some had scarlet blossoms\nthat nodded to and fro like drowsy men, and there were long festoons of\nwhite stars. The air there was heavy with their scent. But they were all\nfull of thorns, only you could not see the thorns till after you had\nplucked the blossom.\n\nThis wood was pierced by roads. Many were very broad, leading through\nthe forest in divers ways, some of them stopping now and then in the\nglades, others avoiding them more or less, but none of them were\nstraight. Always, if you followed them, they bent and bent until after\nmuch travelling you were where you began; and the broader the road, the\nsofter the turf beneath it; the sweeter the glades that lined it, the\nquicker did it turn.\n\nOne road there was that went straight, but it was far from the others.\nIt led among the rocks and cliffs that bounded one side of the valley.\nIt was very rough, very far from all the glades in the lowlands. No\nflowers grew beside it, there was no moss or grass upon it, only hard\nsharp rocks. It was very narrow, bordered with precipices.\n\nThere were many lights in this wood, lights that flamed out like sunsets\nand died, lights that came like lightning in the night and were gone.\nThis wood was never quite dark, it was so full of these lights that\nflickered aimlessly.\n\nThere were men in this wood who wandered to and fro. The wood was full\nof them.\n\nThey did not know whither they went; they did not know whither they\nwished to go. Only this they knew, that they could never keep still;\nfor the keeper of this wood was Time. He was armed with a keen whip, and\nkept driving them on and on; there was no rest.\n\nMany of these when they first came loved the wood. The glades, they\nsaid, were very beautiful, the flowers very sweet. They wandered down\nthe broad roads into the glades, and tried to lie upon the moss and love\nthe flowers; but Time would not let them. Just for a few moments they\ncould have peace, and then they must on and on. But they did not care.\n'The forest is full of glades,' they said; 'if we cannot live in one, we\ncan find another.' And so they went on finding others and others, and\neach one pleased them less.\n\nSome few there were who did not go to the glades at all. 'They are very\nbeautiful,' they said, 'but these roads that pass through them, whither\ndo they lead? Round and round and round again. There is no peace there.\nTime rules in those glades, Time with his whip and goad, and there is no\npeace. What we want is rest. And those lights,' they said, 'they are\nwandering lights, like the summer lightning far down in the South,\nmoving hither and thither. We care not for such lights. Our light is\nfirm and clear. What we desire is peace; we do not care to wander for\never round this forest, to see for ever those shifting lights.'\n\nAnd so they would not go down the winding roads, but essayed the path\nupon the cliffs. 'It is narrow,' they said, 'it has no flowers, it is\nfull of rocks, but it is straight. It will lead us somewhere, not round\nand round and round again--it will take us somewhere. And there is a\nlight,' they said, 'before us, the light of a star. It is very small\nnow, but it is always steady; it never flickers or wanes. It is the star\nof Truth. Under that star we shall find that which we seek.'\n\nAnd so they went upon their road, toiling upon the rocks, falling now\nand then, bleeding with wounds from the sharp points, sore-footed, but\nstrong-hearted. And ever as they went they were farther and farther from\nthe forest, farther and farther from the glades and the flowers with\ndeadly scents; they heard less and less the crack of the whip of Time\nfalling upon the wanderers' shoulders.\n\nThe star grew nearer and nearer, the light grew greater and greater, the\nfalse lights died behind them, until at last they came out of the\nforest, and there they found the lake that washes away all desire under\nthe sun of Truth.\n\nThey had won their way. Time and Life and Fight and Struggle were behind\nthem, could not follow them, as they came, weary and footsore, into the\nGreat Peace.\n\nAnd of those who were left behind, of those who stayed in the glades to\ngather the deadly flowers, to be driven ever forward by the whip of\nTime--what of them? Surely they will learn. The kindly whip of Time is\nbehind: he will never let them rest in such a deadly forest; they must\ngo ever forward; and as they go they grow more and more weary, the\nglades are more and more distasteful, the heavy-scented blossoms more\nand more repulsive. They will find out the thorns too. At first they\nforgot the thorns in the flowers. 'The blossoms are beautiful,' they\nsaid; 'what care we for the thorns? Nay, the thorns are good. It is a\npleasure to fight with them. What would the forest be without its\nthorns? If we could gather the flowers and find no thorns, we should not\ncare for them. The more the thorns, the more valuable the blossoms.'\n\nSo they said, and they gathered the blossoms, and they faded. But the\nthorns did not fade; they were ever there. The more blossoms a man had\ngathered, the more thorns he had to wear, and Time was ever behind him.\nThey wanted to rest in the glades, but Time willed that ever they must\ngo forward; no going back, no rest, ever and ever on. So they grew very\nweary.\n\n'These flowers,' they said at last, 'are always the same. We are tired\nof them; their smell is heavy; they are dead. This forest is full of\nthorns only. How shall we escape from it? Ever as we go round and round\nwe hate the flowers more, we feel the thorns more acutely. We must\nescape! We are sick of Time and his whip, our feet are very, very weary,\nour eyes are dazzled and dim. We, too, would seek the Peace. We laughed\nat those before who went along the rocky path; we did not want peace;\nbut now it seems to us the most beautiful thing in the world. Will Time\nnever cease to drive us on and on? Will these lights _never_ cease to\nflash to and fro?'\n\nEach man at last will turn to the straight road. He will find out. Every\nman will find out at last that the forest is hateful, that the flowers\nare deadly, that the thorns are terrible; every man will learn to fear\nTime.\n\nThen, when the longing for peace has come, he will go to the straight\nway and find it; no man will remain in the forest for ever. He will\nlearn. When he is very, very weary, when his feet are full of thorns,\nand his back scarred with the lashes of Time--great, kindly Time, the\nschoolmaster of the world--he will learn.\n\nNot till he has learnt will he desire to enter into the straight road.\n\nBut in the end all men will come. We at the last shall all meet together\nwhere Time and Life shall be no more.\n\nThis is a Burman allegory of Buddhism. It was told me long ago. I trust\nI have not spoilt it in the retelling.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nCONCLUSION\n\n\nThis is the end of my book. I have tried always as I wrote to remember\nthe principles that I laid down for myself in the first chapter. Whether\nI have always done so I cannot say. It is so difficult, so very\ndifficult, to understand a people--any people--to separate their beliefs\nfrom their assents, to discover the motives of their deeds, that I fear\nI must often have failed.\n\nMy book is short. It would have been easy to make a book out of each\nchapter, to write volumes on each great subject that I have touched on;\nbut I have not done so--I have always been as brief as I could.\n\nI have tried always to illustrate only the central thought, and not the\ninnumerable divergencies, because only so can a great or strange thought\nbe made clear. Later, when the thought is known, then it is easy to\nstray into the byways of thought, always remembering that they are\nbyways, wandering from a great centre.\n\nFor the Burman's life and belief is one great whole.\n\nI thought before I began to write, and I have become more and more\ncertain of it as I have taken up subject after subject, that to all the\ngreat differences of thought between them and us there is one key. And\nthis key is that they believe the world is governed by eternal laws,\nthat have never changed, that will never change, that are founded on\nabsolute righteousness; while we believe in a personal God, altering\nlaws, and changing moralities according to His will.\n\nIf I were to rewrite this book, I should do so from this standpoint of\neternal laws, making the book an illustration of the proposition.\n\nPerhaps it is better as it is, in that I have discovered the key at the\nend of my work instead of at the beginning. I did not write the book to\nprove the proposition, but in writing the book this truth has become\napparent to me.\n\nThe more I have written, the clearer has this teaching become to me,\nuntil now I wonder that I did not understand long ago--nay, that it has\nnot always been apparent to all men.\n\nSurely it is the beginning of all wisdom.\n\nNot until we had discarded Atlas and substituted gravity, until we had\nforgotten Enceladus and learned the laws of heat, until we had rejected\nThor and his hammer and searched after the laws of electricity, could\nscience make any strides onward.\n\nAn irresponsible spirit playing with the world as his toy killed all\nscience.\n\nBut now science has learned a new wisdom, to look only at what it can\nsee, to leave vain imaginings to children and idealists, certain always\nthat the truth is inconceivably more beautiful than any dream.\n\nScience with us has gained her freedom, but the soul is still in bonds.\n\nOnly in Buddhism has this soul-freedom been partly gained. How beautiful\nthis is, how full of great thoughts, how very different to the barren\nmaterialism it has often been said to be, I have tried to show.\n\nI believe myself that in this teaching of the laws of righteousness we\nhave the grandest conception, the greatest wisdom, the world has known.\n\nI believe that in accepting this conception we are opening to ourselves\na new world of unimaginable progress, in justice, in charity, in\nsympathy, and in love.\n\nI believe that as our minds, when freed from their bonds, have grown\nmore and more rapidly to heights of thought before undreamed of, to\ntruths eternal, to beauty inexpressible, so shall our souls, when freed,\nas our minds now are, rise to sublimities of which now we have no\nconception.\n\nLet each man but open his eyes and see, and his own soul shall teach him\nmarvellous things.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\nBILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.","title":"The Soul of a People","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":89567}