From Egypt to Japan

On the Irrawaddy, twenty-five miles from the sea, stands Rangoon, the capital of British Burmah, a city of nearly a hundred thousand inhabitants. As we approach it, the most conspicuous object is the Great Pagoda, the largest in the world, which is a signal that we are not only in a new country, but one that has a new religion – not Brahmin, but Buddhist – whose towering pagodas, with their gilded roofs, take the place of Hindoo temples and Mohammedan mosques. Rangoon boasts a great antiquity; it is said to have been founded in the sixth century before Christ, but its new masters, the English, with their spirit of improvement, have given it quite a modern appearance. Large steamers in the river and warehouses along its bank, show that the spirit of modern enterprise has invaded even this distant part of Asia.

Burmah is a country with a history, dating back far into the past. It was once the seat of a great empire, with a population many fold larger than now. In the interior are to be found ruins like those in the interior of Cambodia, which mark the sites of ancient cities, and attest the greatness of an empire that has long since passed away. This is a subject for the antiquarian; but I am more interested in its present condition and its future prospects than its past history. Burmah is now a part of the great English Empire in the East, and it has been the scene of events which make a very thrilling chapter in the history of American Missions. Remembering this, as soon as we got on shore we took a gharri, and rode off to find the American missionaries, of whom and of their work I shall have more to say. We brought a letter also to the Chief Commissioner, Mr. Rivers Thompson, who invited us to be his guests while in Rangoon. This gentleman is a representative of the best class of English officials in the East, of those conscientious and laborious men, trained in the civil service in India, whose intelligence and experience make the English rule such a blessing to that country. The presence of a man of such character and such intelligence in a position of such power – for he is virtually the ruler of Burmah – is the greatest benefit to the country. We shall long remember him and his excellent wife – a true Englishwoman – for their courtesy and hospitality, which made our visit to Rangoon so pleasant. The Government House is out of the city, surrounded partly by the natural forest, which was alive with monkeys, that were perched in the trees, and leaping from branch to branch. One species of them had a very wild and plaintive cry, almost like that of a human creature in distress. It is said to be the only animal whose notes range through the whole scale. It begins low, and rises rapidly, till it reaches a pitch at which it sounds like a far-off wail of sorrow. Every morning we were awakened by the singing of birds, the first sound in the forest, with which there came through the open windows a cool, delicious air, laden with a dewy freshness as of Spring, the exquisite sensation of a morning in the tropics. Then came the tramp of soldiers along the walk, changing guard. In the midst of these strange surroundings stood the beautiful English home, with all its culture and refinement, and the morning and evening prayers, that were a sweeter incense to the Author of so much beauty than "the spicy breezes that blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle." The evening drive to the public gardens, where a band of music was playing, gave one a sight of the English residents of Rangoon, and made even an American feel, in hearing his familiar tongue, that he was not altogether a stranger in a strange land. The Commissioner gave me his Report on British Burmah, made to the Government of India. It fills a large octavo volume, and in reading it, one is surprised to learn the extent of the country, which is twice as large as the State of New York, and its great natural wealth in its soil and its forests – the resources for supporting a dense population.

I found the best book on Burmah was by an American missionary, Dr. Mason, who, while devoted to his religious work, had the tastes of a naturalist, and wrote of the country with the enthusiasm of a poet and a man of science.[9 - This book furnishes a good illustration of the incidental service which missionaries – aside from the religious work they do – render to the cause of geography, of science, and of literature. They are the most indefatigable explorers, and the most faithful and authentic narrators of what they see. Its full title is: "Burmah: its People and Natural Productions; or Notes on the Natives, Fauna, Flora, and Minerals, of Tenasserim, Pegu, and Burmah; With systematic catalogues of the known Mammals, Birds, Fishes, Reptiles, Insects, Mollusks, Crustaceans, Anellides, Radiates, Plants, and Minerals, with vernacular names." In his preface the writer says:"No pretensions are made in this work to completeness. It is not a book composed in the luxury of literary leisure, but a collection of Notes [What is here so modestly called Notes, is an octavo of over 900 pages] which I have been making during the twenty years of my residence in this country, in the corners of my time that would otherwise have been wasted. Often to forget my weariness when travelling, when it has been necessary to bivouac in the jungles; while the Karens have been seeking fuel for their night-fires, or angling for their suppers in the stream; I have occupied myself with analyzing the flowers that were blooming around my couch; or examining the fish that were caught; or an occasional reptile, insect, or bird, that attracted my attention. With such occupations I have brightened many a solitary hour; and often has the most unpromising situation proved fruitful in interest; for 'the barren heath, with its mosses, lichens, and insects, its stunted shrubs and pale flowers, becomes a paradise under the eye of observation; and to the genuine thinker the sandy beach and the arid wild are full of wonders.'"] He describes the interior as of marvellous beauty, with rugged mountains, separated by soft green valleys, in which sometimes little lakes, like the Scottish lochs, sleep under the shadow of the hills; and rivers whose banks are like the banks of the Rhine. He says: "British Burmah embraces all variety of aspect, from the flats of Holland, at the mouths of the Irrawaddy, to the more than Scottish beauty of the mountainous valley of the Salwen, and the Rhenish river banks of the Irrawaddy near Prome." With the zest of an Alpine tourist, he climbs the wild passes of the hills, and follows the streams coursing down their sides, to where they leap in waterfalls over precipices fifty or one hundred feet high. Amid this picturesque scenery he finds a fauna and flora, more varied and rich than those of any part of Europe.

The country produces a great variety of tropical fruits; it yields spices and gums; while the natives make use for many purposes of the bamboo and the palm. The wild beasts are hunted for their skins, and the elephants furnish ivory. But the staples of commerce are two – rice and the teak wood. Rice is the universal food of Burmah, as it is of India and of China. And for timber, the teak is invaluable, as it is the only wood that can resist the attacks of the white ants. It is a red wood, like our cedar, and when wrought with any degree of taste and skill, produces a pretty effect. The better class of houses are built of this, and being raised on upright posts, with an open story beneath, and a broad veranda above, they look more like Swiss chalets than like the common Eastern bungalows. The dwellings of the poorer people are mere huts, like Irish shanties or Indian wigwams. They are constructed only with a frame of bamboo, with mats hung between. You could put up one as easily as you would pitch a tent. Drive four bamboo poles in the ground, put cross pieces and hang mats of bark, and you have a Burmese house. To be sure it is a slender habitation – "reeds shaken with the wind;" but it serves to cover the poor occupants, and if an earthquake shakes it down, little harm is done. It costs nothing for house-rent; rice is cheap, and the natives are expert boatmen, and get a part of their living from the rivers and the sea. Their wants are few and easily supplied. "There is perhaps no country in the world," says Mason, "where there are so few beggars, so little suffering, and so much actual independence in the lower strata of society." Thus provided for by nature, they live an easy life. Existence is not a constant struggle. The earth brings forth plentifully for their humble wants. They do not borrow trouble, and are not weighed down with anxiety. Hence the Burmese are very light-hearted and gay. In this they present a marked contrast to some of the Asiatics. They have more of the Mongolian cast of countenance than of the Hindoo, and yet they are not so grave as the Hindoos on the one hand, or as the Chinese on the other. The women have much more freedom than in India. They do not veil their faces, nor are they shut up in their houses. They go about as freely as men, dressed in brilliant colored silks, wound simply and gracefully around them, and carrying the large Chinese umbrellas. They enjoy also the glorious liberty of men in smoking tobacco. We meet them with long cheroots, done up in plantain leaves, in their mouths, grinning from ear to ear. The people are fond of pleasure and amusement, of games and festivals, and laugh and make merry to-day, and think not of to-morrow. This natural and irrepressible gayety of spirit has given them the name of the Irish of the East. Like the Irish too, they are wretchedly improvident. Since they can live so easily, they are content to live poorly. It should be said, however, that up to a recent period they had no motive for saving. The least sign of wealth was a temptation to robbery on the part of officials. Now that they have security under the English government, they can save, and some of the natives have grown rich.

This is one of the benefits of English rule, which make me rejoice whenever I see the English flag in any part of Asia. Wherever that flag flies, there is protection to property and life; there is law and order – the first condition of civilized society. Such a government has been a great blessing to Burmah, as to India. It is not necessary to raise the question how England came into possession here. It is the old story, that when a civilized and a barbarous power come in contact, they are apt to come into conflict. They cannot be quiet and peaceable neighbors. Mutual irritations end in war, and war ends in annexation. In this way, after two wars, England acquired her possessions in the Malayan Peninsula, and Lower Burmah became a part of the great Indian Empire. We cannot find fault with England for doing exactly what we should do in the same circumstances, what we have done repeatedly with the American Indians. Such collisions are almost inevitable. So far from regretting that England thus "absorbed" Burmah, I only regret that instead of taking half, she did not take the whole. For British Burmah is not the whole of Burmah; there is still a native kingdom on the Upper Irrawaddy, between British Burmah and China, with a capital, Mandelay, and a sovereign of most extraordinary character, who preserves in full force the notions of royalty peculiar to Asiatic countries. Recently a British envoy, Sir Douglas Forsyth, was sent to have some negotiations with him, but there was a difficulty about having an audience of his Majesty, owing to the peculiar etiquette of that court, according to which he was required to take off his boots, and get down on his knees, and approach the royal presence on all fours! I forget how the great question was compromised, but there is no doubt that the King of Burmah considers himself the greatest potentate on earth. His capital is a wretched place. A Russian gentleman whom we met in Rangoon, had just come down from Mandelay, and he described it as the most miserable mass of habitations that ever assumed to be called a city. There were no roads, no carriages, no horses, only a few bullock carts. Yet the lord of this capital thinks it a great metropolis, and himself a great sovereign, and no one about him dares tell him to the contrary. He is an absolute despot, and has the power of life and death, which he exercises on any who excite his displeasure. He has but to speak a word or raise a hand, and the object of his wrath is led to execution. Suspicion makes him cruel, and death is sometimes inflicted by torture or crucifixion. Formerly bodies were often seen suspended to crosses along the river. Of course no one dares to provoke such a master by telling him the truth. Not long ago he sent a mission to Europe, and when his ambassadors returned, they reported to the King that "London and Paris were very respectable cities, but not to be compared to Mandelay!" This was repeated to me by the captain of the steamer which brought them back, who said one of them told him they did not dare to say anything else; that they would lose their heads if they should intimate to his majesty that there was on the earth a greater sovereign than himself.

But in spite of his absolute authority, this old King lives in constant terror, and keeps himself shut up in his palace, or within the walls of his garden, not daring to stir abroad for fear of assassination.

It requires a few hard knocks to get a little sense into such a thick head; and if in the course of human events the English were called to administer these, we should be sweetly submissive to the ordering of Providence.

But though so ignorant of the world, this old king is accounted a learned man among his people, and is quite religious after his fashion. Indeed he is reported to have said to an English gentleman that "the English were a great people, but what a pity that they had no religion!" In his own faith he is very "orthodox." He will not have any "Dissenters" about him – not he. If any man has doubts, let him keep them to himself, lest the waters of the Irrawaddy roll over his unbelieving breast.

But in the course of nature this holy man will be gathered to his rest, and then his happy family may perhaps not live in such perfect harmony. He is now sixty-five years old, and has thirty sons, so that the question of succession is somewhat difficult, as there is no order of primogeniture. He has the right to choose an heir; and has been urged to do so by his English neighbors, to obviate all dispute to the succession. But he did this once and it raised a storm about his ears. The twenty-nine sons that were not chosen, with their respective mothers, raised such a din about his head that the poor man was nearly distracted, and was glad to revoke his decision, to keep peace in the family. He keeps his sons under strict surveillance lest they should assassinate him. But if he thus gets peace in his time, he leaves things in a state of glorious uncertainty after his death. Then there may be a household divided against itself. Perhaps they will fall out like the Kilkenny cats. If there should be a disputed succession, and a long and bloody civil war, it might be a duty for their strong neighbors, "in the interest of humanity," to step in and settle the dispute by taking the country for themselves. Who could regret an issue that should put an end to the horrible oppression and tyranny of the native government, with its cruel punishments, its tortures and crucifixions?

It would give the English the mastery of a magnificent country. The valley of the Irrawaddy is rich as the valley of the Nile, and only needs "law and order" for the wilderness to bud and blossom as the rose. Should the English take Upper Burmah, the great East Indian Empire would be extended over the whole South of Asia, and up to the borders of China.

But the excellent Chief Commissioner has no dream of annexation, his only ambition being to govern justly the people entrusted to his care; to protect them in their rights; to put down violence and robbery, for the country has been in such a fearful state of disorganization, that the interior has been overrun with bands of robbers. Dacoity, as it is called, has been the terror of the country, as much as brigandage has been of Sicily. But the English are now putting it down with a strong hand. To develop the resources of the country, the Government seeks to promote internal communication and foreign commerce. At Rangoon the track is already laid for a railroad up the country to Prome. The seaports are improved and made safe for ships. With such facilities Burmah may have a large commerce, for which she has ample material. Her vast forests of teak would supply the demand of all Southern Asia; while the rice from the delta of the Irrawaddy may in the future, as in the past, feed the millions of India who might otherwise die from famine.

With the establishment of this civilized rule there opens a prospect for the future of Burmah, which shall be better than the old age of splendid tyranny. Says Mason: "The golden age when Pegu was the land of gold, and the Irrawaddy the river of gold, has passed away, and the country degenerated into the land of paddy (rice), and the stream into the river of teak. Yet its last days are its best days. If the gold has vanished, so has oppression; if the gems have fled, so have the taskmasters; if the palace of the Brama of Toungoo, who had twenty-six crowned heads at his command, is in ruins, the slave is free." The poor native has now some encouragement to cultivate his rice field, for its fruit will not be taken from him. The great want of the country is the same as that of the Western States of America – population. British Burmah has but three millions of inhabitants, while, if the country were as thickly settled as Belgium and Holland, or as some parts of Asia, it might support thirty millions. Such a population cannot come at once, or in a century, but the country may look for a slow but steady growth from the overflow of India and China, that shall in time rebuild its waste places, and plant towns and cities along its rivers.

While thus interested in the political state of Burmah we cannot forget its religion. In coming from India to Farther India we have found not only a new race, but a new faith and worship. While Brahminism rules the great Southern Peninsula of Asia, Buddhism is the religion of Eastern Asia, numbering more adherents than any other religion on the globe. Of this new faith one may obtain some idea by a visit to the Great Pagoda. The Buddhists, like the priests of some other religions, choose lofty sites for their places of worship, which, as they overtop the earth, seem to raise them nearer to heaven. The Great Pagoda stands on a hill, or rocky ledge, which overlooks the city of Rangoon and the valley of the Irrawaddy. It is approached by a long flight of steps, which is occupied, like the approaches to the ancient temple in Jerusalem, by them that buy and sell, so that it is a kind of bazaar, and also by lepers and blind men, who stretch out their hands to ask for alms of those who mount the sacred hill to pray. Ascending to the summit, we find a plateau, on which there is an enclosure of perhaps an acre or two of ground. The Pagoda is a colossal structure, with a broad base like a pyramid, though round in shape, sloping upwards to a slender cone, which tapers at last to a sort of spire over three hundred feet high, and as the whole, from base to pinnacle, is covered with gold leaf, it presents a very dazzling appearance, when it reflects the rays of the sun. As a pagoda is always a solid mass of masonry, with no inner place of worship – not even a shrine, or a chamber like that in the heart of the Great Pyramid – there was more of fervor than of fitness in the language of an English friend of missions, who prayed "that the pagodas might resound with the praises of God!" They might resound, but it must needs be on the outside. The tall spire has for its extreme point, what architects call a finial – a kind of umbrella, which the Burmese call a "htee," made of a series of iron rings gilded, from which hang many little silver and brass bells, which, swinging to and fro with every passing breeze, give forth a dripping musical sound. The Buddhist idea of prayer is not limited to human speech; it may be expressed by an offering of flowers, or the tinkling of a bell. It is at least a pretty fancy, which leads them to suspend on every point and pinnacle of their pagodas these tiny bells, whose soft, aërial chimes sound sweetly in the air, and floating upward, fill the ear of heaven with a constant melody. Besides the Great Pagoda, there are other smaller pagodas, one of which has lately been decorated with a magnificent "htee," presented by a rich timber merchant of Maulmain. It is said to have cost fifty thousand dollars, as we can well believe, since it is gemmed with diamonds and other precious stones. There was a great festival when it was set up in its place, which was kept up for several days, and is just over. At the same time he presented an elephant for the service of the temple, who, being thus consecrated, is of course a sacred beast. We met him taking his morning rounds, and very grand he was, with his crimson and gold trappings and howdah, and as he swung along with becoming gravity, he was a more dignified object than the worshippers around him. But the people were very good-natured, and we walked about in their holy places, and made our observations with the utmost freedom. In the enclosure are many pavilions, some of which are places for worship, and others rest-houses for the people. The idols are hideous objects, as all idols are, though perhaps better looking than those of the Hindoos. They represent Buddha in all positions, before whose image candles are kept burning.

In the grounds is an enormous bell, which is constantly struck by the worshippers, till its deep vibrations make the very air around holy with prayer. With my American curiosity to see the inside of everything, I crawled under it (it was hung but a few inches above the ground), and rose up within the hollow bronze, which had so long trembled with pious devotion. But at that moment it hung in silence, and I crawled back again, lest by some accident the enormous weight should fall and put an extinguisher on my further comparative study of religions. This bell serves another purpose in the worship of Buddhists. They strike upon it before saying their prayers, to attract the attention of the recording angel, so that they may get due credit for their act of piety. Those philosophical spirits who admire all religions but the Christian, will observe in this a beautiful economy in their devotions. They do not wish their prayers to be wasted. By getting due allowance for them, they not only keep their credit good, but have a balance in their favor. It is the same economy which leads them to attach prayers to water-wheels and windmills, by which the greatest amount of praying may be done with the least possible amount of labor or time. The one object of the Buddhist religion seems to be to attain merit, according to the amount of which they will spend more or less time in the realm of spirits before returning to this cold world, and on which depends also the form they will assume on their reincarnation. Among those who sit at the gate of the temple as we approach, are holy men, who, by a long course of devotion, have accumulated such a stock of merit that they have enough and to spare, and are willing to part with it for a consideration to others less fortunate than themselves. It is the old idea of works of supererogation over again, in which, as in many other things, they show the closest resemblance to Romanism.

But however puerile it may be in its forms of worship, yet as a religion Buddhism is an immeasurable advance on Brahminism. In leaving India we have left behind Hindooism, and are grateful for the change, for Buddhism is altogether a more respectable religion. It has no bloody rites like those of the goddess Kali. It does not outrage decency nor morality. It has no obscene images nor obscene worship. It has no caste, with its bondage and its degradation. Indeed, the scholar who makes a study of different religions, will rank Buddhism among the best of those which are uninspired; if he does not find in its origin and in the life of its founder much that looks even like inspiration. There is no doubt that Buddha, or Gaudama, if such a man ever lived (of which there is perhaps no more reason to doubt than of any of the great characters of antiquity), began his career of a religious teacher, as a reformer of Brahminism, with the honest and noble purpose of elevating the faith, and purifying the lives of mankind. Mason, as a Christian missionary, certainly did not desire to exaggerate the virtues of another religion, and yet he writes of the origin of Buddhism:

"Three hundred years before Alexandria was founded; about the time that Thales, the most ancient philosopher of Europe, was teaching in Greece that water is the origin of all things, the soul of the world; and Zoroaster, in Media or Persia, was systematizing the fire-worship of the Magi; and Confucius in China was calling on the teeming multitudes around him to offer to guardian spirits and the names of their ancestors; and Nebuchadnezzar set up his golden image in the plains of Dura, and Daniel was laboring in Babylon to establish the worship of the true God; a reverend sage, with his staff and scrip, who had left a throne for philosophy, was travelling from Gaya to Benares, and from Benares to Kanouj, exhorting the people against theft, falsehood, adultery, killing and intemperance. No temperance lecturer advocates teetotalism now more strongly than did this sage Gaudama twenty-three centuries ago. Nor did he confine his instructions to external vices. Pride, anger, lust, envy and covetousness were condemned by him in as strong terms as are ever heard from the Christian pulpit. Love, mercy, patience, self-denial, alms-giving, truth, and the cultivation of wisdom, he required of all. Good actions, good words, and good thoughts were the frequent subjects of his sermons, and he was unceasing in his cautions to keep the mind free from the turmoils of passion, and the cares of life. Immediately after the death of this venerable peripatetic, his disciples scattered themselves abroad to propagate the doctrines of their master, and tradition says, one party entered the principal mouth of the Irrawaddy, where they traced its banks to where the first rocks lift themselves abruptly above the flats around. Here, on the summit of this laterite ledge, one hundred and sixty feet above the river, they erected the standard of Buddhism, which now lifts its spire to the heavens higher than the dome of St. Paul's."

In its practical effects Buddhism is favorable to virtue; and its adherents, so far as they follow it, are a quiet and inoffensive people. They are a kind of Quakers, who follow an inward light, and whose whole philosophy of life is one of repression of natural desires. Their creed is a mixture of mysticism and stoicism, which by gentle meditation subdues the mind to "a calm and heavenly frame," a placid indifference to good or ill, to joy or sorrow, to pleasure and pain. It teaches that by subduing the desires – pride, envy, and ambition – one brings himself into a state of tranquillity, in which there is neither hope nor fear. It is easy to see where such a creed is defective; that it does not bring out the heroic virtues, as shown in active devotion to others' good. This active philanthropy is born of Christianity. There is a spiritual selfishness in dreaming life away in this idle meditation. But so far as others are concerned, it bids no man wrong his neighbor.

Buddha's table of the law may be compared with that of Moses. Instead of Ten Commandments, it has only Five, which correspond very nearly to the latter half of the Decalogue. Indeed three of them are precisely the same, viz.: Do not kill; Do not steal; and Do not commit adultery; and the fourth, Do not lie, includes, as a broader statement, the Mosaic command not to bear false witness against one's neighbor; but the last one of all, instead of being "not to covet," is, Do not become intoxicated. These commands are all prohibitions, and enforce only the negative side of virtue. They forbid injury to property and life and reputation, and thus every injury to one's neighbor, and the last of all forbids injury to one's self, while they do not urge active benevolence to man nor piety towards God.

These Five Commandments are the rule of life for all men. But to those who aspire to a more purely religious life, there are other and stricter rules. They are required to renounce the world, to live apart, and practice rigid austerities, in order to bring the body into subjection. Every day is to be one of abstinence and self-denial. To them are given five other commands, in addition to those prescribed to mankind generally. They must take no solid food after noon (a fast not only Friday, but every day of the week); they must not visit dances, singing or theatrical representations; must use no ornaments or perfumery in dress; must not sleep in luxurious beds, and while living by alms, accept neither gold nor silver. By this rigid self-discipline, they are expected to be able to subdue their appetites and passions and overcome the world.

This monastic system is one point of resemblance between Buddhism and Romanism. Both have orders of monks and nuns, who take vows of celibacy and poverty, and live in convents and monasteries. There is also a close resemblance in their forms of worship. Both have their holy shrines, and use images and altars, before which flowers are placed, and lamps are always burning. Both chant and pray in an unknown tongue.[10 - Dr. S. Wells Williams, who was familiar with Buddhism during his forty years residence in China, says ("Middle Kingdom," Vol. II., p. 257):"The numerous points of similarity between the rites of the Buddhists and those of the Romish Church, early attracted attention, … such as the vow of celibacy in both sexes, the object of their seclusion, the loss of hair, taking a new name and looking after the care of the convent. There are many grounds for supposing that their favorite goddess Kwanyin, i. e., the Hearer of Cries, called also Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven, is only another form of Our Lady. The monastic habit, holy water, counting rosaries to assist in prayer, the ordinances of celibacy and fasting, and reciting masses for the dead, worship of relics, and canonization of saints, are alike features of both sects. Both burn candles and incense, and bells are much used in their temples: both teach a purgatory, from which the soul can be delivered by prayers, and use a dead language for their liturgy, and their priests pretend to miracles. These striking resemblances led the Romish missionaries to suppose that some of them had been derived from the Romanists or Syrians who entered China before the twelfth century; others referred them to St. Thomas, but Prémare ascribes them to the devil, who had thus imitated holy mother church in order to scandalize and oppose its rights. But as Davis observes: 'To those who admit that most of the Romish ceremonies are borrowed directly from Paganism, there is less difficulty in accounting for the resemblance.'"The following scene in a Buddhist temple described by an eye-witness, answers to what is often seen in Romish churches:"There stood fourteen priests, seven on each side of the altar, erect, motionless, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, their shaven heads and flowing gray robes adding to their solemn appearance. The low and measured tones of the slowly moving chant they were singing might have awakened solemn emotions, and called away the thoughts from worldly objects. Three priests kept time with the music, one beating an immense drum, another a large iron vessel, and a third a wooden bell. After chanting, they kneeled upon low stools, and bowed before the colossal image of Buddha, at the same time striking their heads upon the ground. Then rising and facing each other, they began slowly chanting some sentences, and rapidly increasing the music and their utterance until both were at the climax of rapidity, they diminished in the same way until they had returned to the original measure… The whole service forcibly reminded me of scenes in Romish chapels."]

This resemblance of the Buddhist creed and worship to their own, the Jesuit missionaries have been quick to see, and with their usual artfulness have tried to use it as an argument to smooth the way for the conversion of the Asiatics by representing the change as a slight one. But the Buddhist, not to be outdone in quickness, answers that the difference is so slight that it is not worth making the change. The only difference, they say, is "we worship a man and you worship a woman!"

But Christianity has had other representatives in Burmah than the Jesuits. At an early day American missionaries, as if they could not go far enough away from home, in their zeal to carry the Gospel where it had not been preached before, sought a field of labor in Southeastern Asia. More than sixty years ago they landed on these shores. They planted no colonies, waged no wars, raised no flag, and made no annexation. The only flag they carried over them was that of the Gospel of peace. And yet in the work they wrought they have left a memorial which will long preserve their sainted and heroic names. While in Rangoon I took up again "The Life of Judson" by Dr. Wayland, and read it with new interest on the very spot which had been the scene of his labors. Nothing in the whole history of missions is more thrilling than the story of his imprisonment. It was during the second Burmese war. He was at that time at Ava, the capital of Burmah, where he had been in favor till now, when the king, enraged at the English, seized all that he could lay hands upon, and threw them into prison. He could not distinguish an American, who had the same features and spoke the same language, and so Judson shared the fate of the rest. One day his house was entered by an officer and eight or ten men, one of whom he recognized by his hideous tattooed face as the executioner, who seized him in the midst of his family, threw him on the floor, drew out the instrument of torture, the small cord, with which he bound him, and hurried him to the death prison, where he was chained, as were the other foreigners, each with three pairs of fetters to a pole. He expected nothing but death, but the imprisonment dragged on for months, varied with every device of horror and of cruelty. Often he was chained to the vilest malefactors. Sometimes he was cast into an inner prison, which was like the Black Hole of Calcutta, where his limbs were confined with five pairs of fetters. So loathsome was his prison, that he counted it the greatest favor and indulgence, when, after a fever, he was allowed to sleep in the cage of a dead lion! This lasted nearly two years. Several times his keepers had orders (as they confessed afterward) to assassinate him, but, restrained perhaps by pity for his wife, they withheld their hand, thinking that disease would soon do the work for them.

During all that long and dreadful time his wife watched over him with never-failing devotion. She could not sleep in the prison, but every day she dragged herself two miles through the crowded city, carrying food for her husband and the other English prisoners. During that period a child was born, whose first sight of its father was within prison walls. Some time after even his heathen jailors took pity on him, and allowed him to take a little air in the street outside of the prison gate. And history does not present a more touching scene than that of this man, when his wife was ill, carrying his babe through the streets from door to door, asking Burman mothers, in the sacred name of maternity, of that instinct of motherhood which is universal throughout the world, to give nourishment to this poor, emaciated, and dying child.

But at length a day of deliverance came. The English army had taken Rangoon and was advancing up the Irrawaddy. Then all was terror at Ava, and the tyrant that had thrown Judson into a dungeon, sent to bring him out and to beg him to go to the English camp to be his interpreter, and to sue for terms of peace. He went and was received with the honor due to his character and his sufferings. But the heroine of the camp was that noble American woman, whose devotion had saved, not only the life of her husband, but the lives of all the English prisoners. The commander-in-chief received her as if she had been an empress, and at a great dinner given to the Burmese ambassadors placed her at his right hand, in the presence of the very men to whom she had often been to beg for mercy, and had been often driven brutally from their doors. The tables were turned, and they were the ones to ask for mercy now. They sat uneasy, giving restless glances at the missionary's wife, as if fearing lest a sudden burst of womanly indignation should impel her to demand the punishment of those who had treated her with such cruelty. But they were quite safe. She would not touch a hair of their heads. Too happy in the release of the one she loved, her heart was overflowing with gratitude, and she felt no desire but to live among this people, and to do good to those from whom she had suffered so much. They removed to Amherst, at the mouth of the Maulmain River, and had built a pretty home, and were beginning to realize their dream of missionary life, when she was taken ill, and, broken by her former hardships, soon sank in death.

Probably "The Life of Judson" has interested American Christians in Burmah more than all the histories and geographical descriptions put together. General histories have never the interest of a personal narrative, and the picture of Judson in a dungeon, wearing manacles on his limbs, exposed to death in its most terrible forms, to be tortured or to be crucified, and finally saved by the devotion of his wife, has touched the hearts of the American people more than all the learned histories of Eastern Asia that ever were written.

And when I stood at a humble grave on Amherst Point, looking out upon the sea, and read upon the stone the name of Ann Hasseltine Judson, and thought of that gentle American wife, coming out from the peace and protection of her New England home to face such dangers, I felt that I had never bent over the dust of one more worthy of all the honors of womanhood and sainthood; tender and shrinking, but whom love made strong and brave; who walked among coarse and brutal men, armed only with her own native modesty and dignity: who by the sick-bed or in a prison cast light in a dark place by her sweet presence; and who united all that is noble in woman's love and courage and devotion.

Judson survived this first wife about a quarter of a century – a period full of labor, and in its later years, full of precious fruit. That was the golden autumn of his life. He that had gone forth weeping, bearing precious seed, came again rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him. I wish the Church in America could see what has been achieved by that well-spent life. Most of his fellow-laborers have gone to their rest, though Mr. and Mrs. Bennett at Rangoon, and Dr. and Mrs. Haswell at Maulmain, still live to tell of the trials and struggles of those early days.[11 - Dr. Haswell died a few months after we left Burmah.] And now appears the fruit of all those toilsome years. The mission that was weak has grown strong. In Rangoon there are a number of missionaries, who have not only established churches and Christian schools, but founded a College and a Theological Seminary. They have a Printing Press, under the charge of the veteran Mr. Bennett, who has been here forty-six years. In the interior are churches in great numbers. The early missionaries found a poor people – a sort of lower caste among the Burmese – the Karens. It may almost be said that they caught them in the woods and tamed them. They first reduced their language to writing; they gave them books and schools, and to-day there are twenty thousand of this people who are members of their churches. In the interior there are many Christian villages, with native churches and native pastors, supported by the people themselves, whose deep poverty abounds to their liberality in a way that recalls Apostolic times.

The field which has been the scene of such toils and sacrifices properly belongs to the denomination which has given such examples of Christian devotion. The Baptists were the first to enter the country, led by an apostle. The Mission in Burmah is the glory of the Baptist Church, as that of the Sandwich Islands is of the American Board. They have a sort of right to the land by reason of first occupancy – a right made sacred by these early and heroic memories; and I trust will be respected by other Christian bodies in the exercise of that comity which ought to exist between Churches as between States, in the possession of a field which they have cultivated with so much zeal, wisdom, and success.

It is not till one leaves Rangoon that he sees the beauty of Burmah. The banks of the Irrawaddy, like those of the Hoogly, are low and jungly; but as we glide from the river into the sea, and turn southward, the shores begin to rise, till after a few hours' sail we might be on the coast of Wales or of Scotland. The next morning found us at anchor off the mouth of the Salwen River. The steamers of the British India Company stop at all the principal ports, and we were now to pass up the river to Maulmain. But the Malda was too large to cross the bar except at very high tide, for which we should have to wait over a day. The prospect of resting here under a tropical sun, and in full sight of the shore, was not inviting, and we looked about for some way of escape. Fortunately we had on board Miss Haswell, of the well-known missionary family, who had gone up from Maulmain to Rangoon to see some friends off for America, and was now returning. With such an interpreter and guide, we determined to go on shore, and hailing a pilot-boat, went down the ship's ladder, and jumped on board. The captain thought us very rash, as the sea was rough, and the boat rose and plunged in waves; but the Malays are like seagulls on the water, and raising their sail, made of bamboo poles, and rush matting, we flew before the wind, and were soon landed at Amherst Point. This was holy ground, for here Judson had lived, and here his wife died and was buried. Her grave is on the sea-shore, but a few rods from the water, and we went straight to it. It is a low mound, with a plain headstone, around which an American sea captain had placed a wooden paling to guard the sacred spot. There she sleeps, with only the murmur of the waves, as they come rippling up the beach, to sing her requiem. But her name will not die, and in all the world, where love and heroism are remembered, what this woman hath done shall be told for a memorial of her. Her husband is not here, for (as the readers of his life will remember) his last years were spent at Maulmain, from which he was taken, when very ill, on board a vessel, bound for the Mauritius, in hope that a voyage might save him when all other means had failed, and died at sea when but four days out, and was committed to the deep in the Bay of Bengal. One cannot but regret that he did not die on land, that he might have been buried beside his wife in the soil of Burmah; but it is something that he is not far away, and the waters that roll over him kiss its beloved shores.

Miss Haswell led the way up the beach to the little house which Judson had built. It was unoccupied, but there was an old bedstead on which the apostle had slept, and I stretched myself upon it, feeling that I caught as much inspiration lying there as when I lay down in the sarcophagus of Cheops in the heart of the Great Pyramid. We found a rude table too, which we drew out upon the veranda, and a family of native Christians brought us rice and milk and eggs, with which we made a breakfast in native style. The family of Miss Haswell once occupied this mission house, and it was quite enlivening to hear, as we sat there quietly taking our rice and milk, how the tigers used to come around and make themselves at home, snuffing about the doors, and carrying off dogs from the veranda, and killing a buffalo in the front yard. They are not quite so familiar now along the coast, but in the interior one can hardly go through a forest without coming on their tracks. Only last year Miss Haswell, on her way to attend the meeting of an association, camped in the woods. She found the men were getting sleepy, and neglected the fire, and so she kept awake, and sat up to throw on the wood. It was well, for in the night suddenly all the cattle sprang up with every sign of terror, and there came on the air that strong smell which none who have perceived it can mistake, which shows that a tiger is near. Doubtless he was peering at them through the covert, and nothing but the blazing fire kept him away.

After our repast, we took a ride in native style. A pair of oxen was brought to the door, with a cart turned up at both ends, in such a manner that those riding in it were dumped into a heap; and thus well shaken together, we rode down to the shore, where we had engaged a boat to take us up the river. It was a long slender skiff, which, with its covering of bamboo bent over it, was in shape not unlike a gondola of Venice. The arch of its roof was of course not very lofty; we could not stand up, but we could sit or lie down, and here we stretched ourselves in glorious ease, and as a pleasant breeze came in from the sea, our little bark moved swiftly before it. The captain of our boat was a venerable-looking native, like some of the Arabs we saw on the Nile, with two boatmen for his "crew," stout fellows, whose brawny limbs were not confined by excess of clothing. In fact, they had on only a single garment, a kind of French blouse, which, by way of variety, they took off and washed in the river as we sailed along. However, they had another clout for a change, which they drew over them with great dexterity before they took off the first, so as not to offend us. Altogether the scene was not unlike what some of my readers may have witnessed on one of our Southern rivers; and if we could only have had the rich voices of the negro boatmen, singing

"Down on the Alabama,"

the illusion would have been complete. Thus in a dreamy mood, and with a gentle motion, we glided up the beautiful Salwen, between low banks covered with forests, a distance of thirty miles, till at five o'clock we reached the lower end of Maulmain, and went ashore, and rode two or three miles up the river to Dr. Haswell's, where Miss H. claimed C – for her guest, while I was entertained at her brother's in the old missionary compound, where Dr. Judson lived for so many years, and which he left only to die. These American friends, with their kind hospitalities, made us feel quite at home in Burmah; and as if to bring still nearer Christian England and America, we were taken the same evening to a prayer-meeting at the house of an English officer who is in command here, where they sang Sankey's hymns!

Maulmain is a place of great natural beauty. Though on the river, it rises from the water's edge in steep and wooded banks, and has a background of hills. One can hardly find a lovelier view in all the East than that from the hill behind it, on which stands an old Buddhist monastery and pagoda. Here the eye ranges over a distance of many miles. Several rivers which flow together give the country the appearance of being covered with water, out of which rise many elevated points, like islands in a sea. In clear weather, after the rains, one may see on the horizon the distant peaks of the mountains in Siam. This was a favorite resort of Dr. Judson, who, being a man of great physical as well as intellectual vigor, was fond of walking, and loved to climb the hills. Miss Haswell, who as a child remembered him, told us how she once saw him here "playing tag" with his wife, chasing her as she ran down the hill. This picture of the old man delighted me – to think that not all his labors and sufferings could subdue that unconquerable spirit, but that he retained even to old age the freshness of a boy, and was as hearty in play as in preaching. This is the sort of muscular Christians that are needed to face the hardships of a missionary life – men who will not faint in the heat of the tropics, nor falter at the prospect of imprisonment or death.

While we stood here the Buddhist monks were climbing slowly up the hill, and I could but think of the difference between our intrepid missionary and these languid, not to say lazy, devotees. We had a good chance to observe them, and to remark their resemblance to similar orders in the Church of Rome. The Buddhist monk, like his Romish brother, shaves his head, eats no animal food (the command of Buddha not to kill, is interpreted not to take life of any kind), and lives only by the alms of the faithful. Seeing them here, with their shaven heads and long robes, going about the streets, stopping before the doors to receive their daily tributes of rice, one is constantly reminded of the mendicant friars of Italy. They live in monasteries, which are generally situated, like this, on the tops of hills, retired from the world, where they keep together for mutual instruction, and to join in devotion. They do no work except to cultivate the grounds of the temple, but give up their lives to meditation and to prayer.

It would be wrong to speak of such men but with proper respect. They are quiet and inoffensive; some of them are learned; still more are serious and devout. Says Dr. Williams: "Their largest monasteries contain extensive libraries, and a portion of the fraternity are well acquainted with letters, though numbers of them are ignorant even of their own books." "Their moral character, as a class, is on a par with their countrymen, and many of them are respectable, intelligent, and sober-minded persons, who seem to be sincerely desirous of making themselves better, if possible, by their religious observances."

But this life of a recluse, while favorable to study and meditation, does not inspire active exertion. Indeed the whole Buddhist philosophy of life seems to be comprised in this, that man should dream away existence here on earth, and then lapse into a dreamy eternity.

"To be or not to be, that's the question;"

and for them it seems better "not to be." Their heaven – their Nirvana – is annihilation, yet not absolute non-existence, but only absorption of their personality, so that their separate being is swallowed up and lost in God. They will still be conscious, but have no hope and no fear, no dread and no desire, but only survey existence with the ineffable calm of the Infinite One. This passive, emotionless state is expressed in all the statues and images of Buddha.

If that be heaven, it is not earth; and they who pass life in a dream are not the men to revolutionize the world. This whole monastery, full of monks, praying and chanting for generations, cannot so stir the mind of Asia, or make its power felt even in Burmah, as one heroic man like Judson.

Miss Haswell belongs to a family of missionaries. Her father and mother were companions of Judson, and the children are in one way and another devoted to the same work. She has a school for girls, which is said to be the best in Burmah. The Chief Commissioner at Rangoon spoke of it in the highest terms, and makes special mention of it in his Report. She told us with great modesty, and almost with a feeling of shame, of the struggle and mortification with which she had literally "begged" the money for it in America. But never did good seed scattered on the waters bear richer fruit. If a deputation from all the Baptist churches which contributed to that school could but pay it a visit, and see what it is doing, it would never want for funds hereafter.

Burmah is a country which needs all good influences – moral and religious. It needs also a strong government, just laws rigidly enforced, to keep peace and order in the land. For though the people are so gay and merry, there is a fearful degree of crime. In Maulmain there is a prison, which holds over a thousand prisoners, many of whom have been guilty of the worst crimes. A few days since there was an outbreak, and an attempt to escape. A number got out of the gate, and were running till they were brought up by shots from the military. Seven were killed and seven wounded. I went through this prison one morning with the physician as he made his rounds. As we entered a man was brought up who had been guilty of some insubordination. He had once attempted to kill the jailer. The Doctor inquired briefly into the offence, and said, without further words: "Give him fifteen cuts." Instantly the man was seized and tied, arms extended, and legs fastened, so that he could not move, and his back uncovered, and an attendant standing off, so that he could give his arm full swing, gave him fifteen cuts that made the flesh start up like whip-cord, and the blood run. The man writhed with agony, but did not scream. I suppose such severity is necessary, but it was a very painful sight. In the hospital we found some of the prisoners who had been concerned in the mutiny. The ringleader had been shot in the leg, which had been amputated. They had found that the ways of transgressors were hard.

Continuing our walk, we went through the different workshops, and saw the kinds of labor to which the men were put, such as making chairs of bamboo, weaving cloth, beating cocoanut husks to make stuff for mattresses, carving, making furniture, blacksmithing, &c. The worst offenders were put to grinding corn, as that was a species of labor in which they had no tools which could be used as deadly weapons. The men in this ward – perhaps a hundred in number – were desperate characters. They were almost all highway robbers, Dacoits, bands of whom have long been the terror of the country. They all had irons on their ankles, and stood up to their tasks, working with their hands. I was not sorry to see "their feet made fast in the stocks," for in looking into their savage faces, one could but feel that he would rather see them in chains and behind iron bars, than meet them alone in a forest.

But I turn to a more agreeable spectacle. It is sometimes more pleasant to look at animals than at men, certainly when men make beasts of themselves, and when, on the other hand, animals show an intelligence almost human. One of the great industries of Burmah is the timber trade. The teak wood, which is the chief timber cut and shipped, is very heavy, and requires prodigious force to handle it; and as the Burmese are not far enough advanced to use machinery for the purpose, they employ elephants, and bravely do the noble beasts perform their task. In the timber yards both at Rangoon and at Maulmain, all the heavy work of drawing and piling the logs is done by them. I have never seen any animals showing such intelligence, and trained to such docility and obedience. In the yard that we visited there were seven elephants, five of which were at that moment at work. Their wonderful strength came into play in moving huge pieces of timber. I did not measure the logs, but should think that many were at least twenty feet long and a foot square. Yet a male elephant would stoop down, and run his tusks under a log, and throw his trunk over it, and walk off with it as lightly as a gentleman would balance his bamboo cane on the tip of his finger. Placing it on the pile, he would measure it with his eye, and if it projected too far at either end, would walk up to it, and with a gentle push or pull, make the pile even. If a still heavier log needed to be moved on the ground to some part of the yard, the mahout, sitting on the elephant's head, would tell him what to do, and the great creature seemed to have a perfect understanding of his master's will. He would put out his enormous foot, and push it along; or he would bend his head, and crouching half way to the ground, and doubling up his trunk in front, throw his whole weight against it, and thus, like a ram, would "butt" the log into its place; or if it needed to be taken a greater distance, he would put a chain around it, and drag it off behind him. The female elephant especially was employed in drawing, as having no tusks, she could not lift like her big brothers, but could only move by her power of traction or attraction. Then using her trunk as deftly as a lady would use her fingers, she would untie the knot or unhitch the chain, and return to her master, perhaps putting out her trunk to receive a banana as a reward for her good conduct. It was a very pretty sight, and gave us a new idea of the value of these noble creatures, and of the way in which they can be trained for the service of man, since they can be not only made subject to his will, but taught to understand it, thus showing equal intelligence and docility.

After a day or two thus pleasantly passed, we went on board the Malda (which had finally got over the bar and come up to Maulmain), and dropped down the river, and were soon sailing along the coast, which grows more beautiful as we steam southward. We pass a great number of islands, which form the Mergui Archipelago, and just now might be off the shores of Greece. Within these sheltered waters is Tavoy, from which it is proposed to build a road over the mountains to Bangkok in Siam. There has long been a path through the dense forest, but one that could only be traversed by elephants. Now it is proposed to have a good road, the expense to be borne by the two kingdoms. Is not this a sign of progress, of an era of peace and good will? Formerly Burmah and Siam were always at war. Being neighbors and rivals, they were "natural enemies," as much as were France and England. But now the strong English hand imposes peace, and the two countries seek a closer connection. The road thus inaugurated will bind them together, and prove not only an avenue of commerce but a highway of civilization.

At Penang we enter the Straits of Malacca, on one side of which is the Malayan Peninsula, and on the other the island of Sumatra, which is larger than all Great Britain, and where just now, at this upper end, the Dutch have a war on their hands. Penang is opposite Acheen, and the Malays, who are engaged in such a desperate resistance to the Dutch, often cross the Straits, and may be seen at any time in the streets of the English settlement. Perhaps it is but natural that the English should have a sympathy with these natives, who are defending their country against invaders, though I do not perceive that this makes them more ready to yield the ground on their own side of the Straits, where just now, at Perak, they have a little war of their own. To this war in Acheen I may refer again, when I come to write of the Dutch power in Java.

Bayard Taylor celebrates Penang as "the most beautiful island in the world," which is a great deal for one to say who has travelled so far and seen so much. I could not be quite so enthusiastic, and yet I do not wonder at any degree of rapture in one who climbs the Peak of Penang, which commands a view not only of the town and harbor below, but of other islands and waters, as well as of mountains and valleys in the interior, which are a part of Siam. Turning seaward, and looking down, this little island of Penang appears as the gem of the scene – a mass of the richest tropical vegetation, set in the midst of tropical seas.

We were now in the tropics indeed. We had been for weeks, but we had a more "realizing sense" of it as we got into the lower latitudes. The heat grew intense as we approached the Equator. One after another we laid aside the garments of the colder North, and put on the lightest and thinnest costume, till we did not know but our only relief would be that suggested by Sydney Smith, "to take off our flesh and sit in our bones." With double awnings spread over the deck, and the motion of the ship stirring the air, still the vertical sun was quite overpowering. We were obliged to keep on deck day and night, although there was ample room below. As there were but eight passengers in the cabin, each had a state-room; but with all this space, and portholes wide open, still it was impossible to keep cool. An iron ship becomes so heated that the state-rooms are like ovens. So we had to take refuge on deck. Every evening the servants appeared, bringing our mattresses, which were spread on the skylight above the cabin. This was very well for the gentlemen of our company, but offered no relief of coolness for our only lady passenger. But a couple of gallant young Englishmen, who with us were making the tour of the world, were determined that she should not be imprisoned below, and they set up on deck a screen, in which she was enclosed as in a tent; and not Cleopatra, when floating in her gilded barge, reclined more royally than she, thus lifted up into the cool night air. Then we all had our reward. The glory of the night made up for the fervors of the day. From our pillows we looked out upon the sea, and as the hot day brought thunderstorms, the lightning playing on the distant horizon lighted up the watery leagues around, till it seemed as if we were

"Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on the wide, wide sea,"

floating on in darkness over an unfathomable abyss. At other times the sea was luminous with the light which she carries in her own bosom. These Southern seas are full of those marine insects which shine like glow-worms in the dark; and when the waters were calm and still, when there was not a ripple on the bosom of the deep, we leaned over the stern of the ship to watch the long track of light which she left in the phosphorescent sea. But brighter than this watery illumination was the sky above, which was all aglow with celestial fires. We had long become familiar with the Southern Cross, which we first saw in Egypt on the Nile, near the First Cataract. But then it was just above the horizon. Now it shone in mid-heaven, while around it were gathered the constellations of the Southern hemisphere. I have seen the stars on the desert and on the sea, but never anything before that quite equalled these nights on the Equator.