IT AMONG THE BURMESE. No. I. has been my lot to spend the greater part of ten years among the Burmese, a people little known except in a few regiments of the English army and to a handful of merchants and Indian officers whom duty or business leads, generally much against their will, to the isolated province which forms the farthest boundary of the Indian Empire; and a time of enforced leisure offers a strong temptation to describe, so far as I may be justified by the recollections of an ordinary observer, some of the traits of the character and some of the scenes of the daily life of one of the most remarkable among the many peoples who own allegiance to the Empress of India. For the last fifty years the territory of which I write has been shared between the British Government and the most primitive of Oriental despotisms, and the share allotted to England, comprising since 1853 the whole of the maritime provinces of Burmah and extending the English dominion in an unbroken line from the frontier of Bengal to the states of the Malay peninsula, constitutes a large and profitable annexure to our vast possessions on the Indian continent. The subsequent consolidation of these provinces under a separate administration subordinate to the Indian Viceroy has within late years given a stimulus to their prosperity, to which striking testimony was borne not long ago by the Burmese King himself, who admitted to an English envoy, that while the towns of the inland kingdom to which he is now confined were becoming villages, the villages within the British frontier were fast becoming towns. The possession of this province, differing widely as it does in every material respect from the Indian territories with which it is incorporated, furnishes to Englishmen an opportunity of studying at leisure, and on a wider scale than is elsewhere possible, the special characteristics, social and religious, ethnical, linguistic, and political, of a Mongolian race, and of contrasting them with those of the Aryan families which are placed in close neighbourhood with them and under identical conditions. The field of interesting research which is thus opened is very wide and as yet almost unexplored. It is not, however, to any ambitious effort of research that I propose to address myself here. The rise and fall of kingdoms and dynasties, the varieties and modifications of language, the course of political relations, statistics of population and production, important and interesting as such subjects are, may be dealt with efficiently by the student at a distance from the country, but there are other matters which require for their treatment an experience which only a few can have, yet which constitute no insignificant element in the history of a people. While historians and philologists follow with toil the migrations of races and link strange companions together by a common speech, a more human interest seems to me to belong to the living aspect in the present of the peoples whose lineage and language are thus painfully made known; and for any truthful conception of this we must after all visit them in their far-off homes, drop down their rivers as comrades in their boats, hear them laugh and sing at the oar or in the field, watch them in their sports and their devotions, learn their interests and aversions, and study the daily manifestation of the character inherited from their wandering ancestry. The Englishman for the first time transported to Burmah feels -I speak for myself-like a man realising a fantastic dream. Quaint indeed is the outward appearance, and quaint are the speech and ways, the dress and bearing, the customs and traditions of the people which occupy this strip of territory wedged in between the overshadowing Empires of India and China, yet remaining (in all but the form of government) as distinct from one as from the other. Once landed in the country, it is not necessary to go far afield for illustrations of their character and of the life they lead. Let the curtain rise on the commonest scene of every-day Burmese life: it is a scene strange enough to an English eye, although probably so familiar to the actors that its quaintness and beauty altogether escape them. An Englishman lounges in the verandah of a rude châlet-like house overlooking the broad stream of the Irrawady. Deputy commissioner and justice of the peace, administrator in fact of a large tract of country, he is fully aware of the importance of his office, and under a careless exterior there is pride enough in his independent and responsible charge, and jealousy enough of the welfare of the people placed under him. Before him, crouching to the ground, with heads bowed low, hands folded as if in prayer, and eyes lifted only at intervals, are seated the members of a Burmese family, father and mother, son and daughters. In Eastern fashion they have brought an offering of fruit and flowers, the best in season, roses and orchids, plantains and oranges, or mangosteens and dorians, and laid them on the ground between themselves and their host. It is a visit purely of ceremony (though, as will be seen, not without motive), and during the leisurely conversation which follows it is easy to make notes of the outward aspect of the group. Moung Shwe Moung, the father, is the type of Burmese respectability, probably a tax-gatherer or other subordinate official, and his object this morning is in reality to introduce his son, whose education in the Government school is now, he thinks, finished (whereas it is hardly begun), and for whom he seeks a place, however humble or ill-paid, under the wing of the all-powerful Government. This object he would rather die than betray until at intervals of days, perhaps weeks, he has paid a succession of such visits of politeness, avowedly out of simple respect and for the pleasure of conversing with the beloved ruler of his district. By such tortuous ways does his Eastern nature teach him to approach the object of his desire when it depends upon the favour of his superior. The face which thus hides what is in his heart, is of the fair Mongolian type, expressive above all things of good humour and easy living; but there is plenty of intelligence in the small eyes, which twinkle with fun at the least provocation. Cheek and chin are hairless as a boy's, and the thin black wiry moustache is as if it were composed of a few stray horse hairs. A wealth of long black hair is on his head, but by a marvellous process the whole of it is compressed into a shining top-knot at the centre of the crown, round as a cricket-ball and of the same size. A narrow turban or fillet of pure white muslin is bound round his temples, and forms an inclosure from the midst of which the top-knot rises, the pointed ends of the turban turning upwards where they meet at the back. His dress, scrupulously clean, consists of two garments; a white linen jacket with loose sleeves is fastened across his chest with buttons of pure red gold, and his lower limbs are covered by a voluminous waist-cloth of silk of some brilliant colour, hanging much like a kilt and in pattern not unlike a Highland tartan. His shoes, a sort of clogs, covered with scarlet cloth, are left (out of respect), with those of the rest of his family, at the entrance of the house, where also each has left a half-smoked cigar or cigarette, and his bare brown feet are studiously kept out of sight tucked away under the folds of his silk putso. On the swarthy skin of his neck are noticed patches of red tattooing, but his dress conceals the extent to which this form of decoration really ornaments his person; of this I shall speak hereafter. To his wife and two fair daughters I could not hope by description to do more than the most imperfect justice. There are those indeed who will say that they have never seen any beauty in a Burmese woman, and who are unable to comprehend the fascination which she is undoubtedly capable of exercising over men of every race, not only of her own kith and kin. For my part, I confess freely that at my first introduction surprise and admiration contended for the mastery: it was impossible to believe that this fair slight girl, of delicate feature and cultivated manner, dressed in rich silks and decorated with jewels, and possessing all the repose of manner associated with high breeding, belonged to an ordinary family of no high station. For even the poorest of the women is as if she had no care beyond the adornment of herself. Her hands are soft and delicate, and she is dressed with both care and taste. Free as she happily is from the restraints imposed on her Mohammedan and Hindu sisters, the Burmese maiden or housewife is, as much as the English woman, the active manager of the household, but the sense of a continual struggle with sordid care which makes life a burden to so many a poor English drudge seems never to have come near her. Living in a genial climate and blest usually with a placid temper, the current of her life seems to roll with a truly enviable calmness. Let me now essay a sketch of the elder of the two girls before us, a fair enough example of Burmese beauty. The features are of the unmistakable Mongolian cast, and the forehead is too contracted for intellect, but the obliquely placed eyes are dark and expressive, the long lashes droop modestly under the arched and literally pencilled eyebrows, and the natural fairness of a pale olive complexion is rendered almost white by a cosmetic powder so carefully applied as to defy detection by a stranger. For the Burmese girl recognises to the full 'the duty of a pretty woman to look pretty,' and the humblest seated at her stall in the bazaar may be seen with her hand looking-glass giving the last touches to her eyebrows or complexion. Her long black hair is drawn entirely off the face, without parting, and twisted into a simple knot at the back of the head, and into this knot is stuck a rose or orchid. A flower in the hair is the invariable crown of the Burmese belle, and in these later days a spray of artificial flowers is not uncommonly worn. Her dress, consisting, like that of her father, of two garments, is very remarkable in its simplicity, while its effect is at once picturesque and characteristic. The principal garment is the tămine, a long close-fitting petticoat of silk, which reaches from immediately below the arms to the feet and even forms a short train: folding across the bosom, it is fastened on one side, but at the upper extremity only, the greater part of its length being altogether without fastening. The sides overlap indeed, but so precarious is the protection that on a windy day a Burmese woman will often be seen crouching to the ground at the street corner to secure her dress. The petticoat, though forming one garment, is in fact in two pieces, an upper border being of dark velvet and the rest of soft silk, woven in waves of many colours, and ending at the foot with a breadth of plain neutral tint. The figure thus draped is usually awkward, the shoulders being too high and square, but the clinging silk gives a peculiar grace to the supple limbs. Over the tumine a long white linen jacket is worn, open in front and with tightly fitting sleeves; and over the shoulders is thrown a scarf or handkerchief of softest silk, pale pink or primrose yellow. Some costly jewellery completes the costume (for our visitor, though of no aristocratic family, is not of the poorest class). Close comb such as English children wear, is not less thickly covered with jewellery. The youth who is the cause of the visit wears no ornaments, but is cleanly and plainly dressed like his father, wearing only a turban of bright-coloured silk instead of plain white muslin. He has an ingenuous, good-humoured face, smooth as a berry, but in manner is the most awkward of the group. Like all Orientals, the visitors attach no value whatever to time, and would sit in silence or desultory conversation till nightfall if undisturbed. But the visit is brought to an end by the host's intimating that he has other business, when they take their leave, each in turn offering an obeisance than which none could be more profound. The joined hands are raised three times to the forehead, and the forehead bent three times to the ground; then, as if shrinking from holy ground, with hands still folded and turned towards their host, they sidle, half stooping, from his presence, avoiding, above all things, the disrespect of exposing their feet to his view. round the throat is worn a veritable 'rope of pearls;' from the neck to the waist depend the strands of a necklace of deep red gold; and in the ears, of which the lobe has been It will be noticed that the attiby a gradual process stretched to a tude of respect in Burmah is the preposterous size, are massive gold reverse of that which is usual elseearrings in the form of a tube, the where. In India the respectful extremity of which, full two inches native rises from a sitting position in circumference, is set with eme- at the approach of his superior, but ralds and diamonds. Such is Mah in Burmah a directly opposite cusShwe Yuet (Miss Golden Leaf), as tom prevails; and where a district she sits modestly before you. Her officer is punctilious in such matvoice is low and soft, and the Bur- ters, you will see the people in the mese language sounds musical from village street drop as he comes near, her lips. With shy and unaffected as if overcome by sudden fatigue, deference she unites a self-possession and crouch at the roadside with which enables her to converse easily eyes averted till he has passed. when addressed; and while keenly appreciating the humorous, she is very ready in repartee and the arts of conversation. I need not call special attention to the rest of the group. The elder woman is more plainly dressed in more subdued colours; but the child, whose hair is bound by a circular Before leaving the subject of the outward appearance of the Burmese, two characteristics must be noticed which in every rank and in every phase of life confront and impress a new comer. These are the universal prevalence, among the men, of the traditional custom of tattooing the body, and the still more universal habit, to which there is no limitation of age, rank, or sex, and no exception but within the Badhist monastery, of smoking either tobacco or some compound of tobacco. At the mention of tattooing, the English reader will be disposed to lower the Burman in his estimation to the level of the Red Indian or South Sea Islander, or other wild offshoot of humanity. Yet it is no mark of any such want of culture. From the educated native judge who sits on the bench to administer the law of England, who speaks and writes the English language, drives in his barouche, and attends the social gatherings of English ladies and gentlemen, to the humblest labourer in the field, every man of the population is tattooed, not at pleasure and within the limits he himself may draw, but by a rigid custom which devotes to the tattooer's art the body of every man from the waist to below the knee. Within this area every Burman is branded with a close tapestry of lions, griffins, and other fabulous monsters, in deep blue pigment, forced under the skin by a painful process. Red tattooing is confined to the upper part of the body. This necessary decoration is begun at an early age, and the prescribed surface is only gradually covered, but the severity of the treatment in the case of very young boys is the cause of no little illness, and sometimes even of death. I have myself met with only one Burman who was not thus decorated, and he was a kind of privileged mountebank, to whom the licence of a clown was allowed, and who was the good-natured butt of his companions. The tattooer is proud to execute his most artistic designs (which he will display on a scroll like a tailor's patterns) on the arms of English officers, and among those who have served in Burmah the samples of his art are among the commonest relics shown to admiring friends at home. Whatever may have been the origin of this strange custom, it is considered an essential mark of manliness, and the Burmese youth who shrank from the ordeal would be regarded and treated as a 'milksop; and, however unnatural the custom may be, it undoubtedly has the effect of attaching a wholesome dignity to hardship, and the fearless endurance of physical pain, to which may be partly due the remarkable freedom from effeminacy which is a popular characteristic of the Burmese. Side by side with this illustration of the hardihood of the people, a conspicuous accompaniment (whether as cause or effect) of their naturally easy and sociable temperament is the literally universal habit of smoking. Burmah is the paradise of the smoker if his paradise consists in the absence of all restraint on his favourite habit. No preacher will here hint that tobacco smoking is the first step to drunkenness, for, with rare exceptions (and, alas! chiefly where the European has brought his vices with his civilisation), the people are waterdrinkers. There is no fear of offending the sensibilities of the most delicately nurtured lady, for the women of every rank are, if possible, more inveterate smokers than the men. No dread of his master's displeasure restrains the youngest schoolboy from his cigar or cigarette. Boys and girls alike smoke as soon as they can walk, and children are even said to learn the habit before they leave their mothers' arms. The new comer to the country is often offended by the freedom with which a Burman who has not been much thrown with Europeans will continue to puff his cigar in his presence, in absolute innocence of any breach of courtesy: and in the indigenous school, children, even in class, only lay aside their cigars while their lungs are occupied with |