Early in 1883 the acting Chief Commissioner, Mr. Crosthwaite,[67] very considerately gave me the option of coming to Rangoon as Junior Secretary. In those days it was usual for officers, especially young officers, to go where they were sent, without previous reference and without room for remonstrance. Nearly twenty years passed before I was again consulted as to my posting. Recently a different practice seems to have developed. Although from a financial point of view the move to Rangoon was ruinous, we decided to risk it and went down. Except for two brief intervals, I stayed in the Secretariat till early in 1891. Altogether I spent in the office eleven years, a period surpassed only, I think, by my friend Mr. C. G. Bayne.[68] In 1883 Mr. Symes was Secretary, Mr. Burgess being on leave.

Life was much the same as when we were here two years before. Rangoon was still a pleasant social place. We rode in the mornings, and played polo or tennis in the afternoons, gave a good many hours to dancing and whist, went to the races twice a year, and in the rains to hunts once a week. Some were even so energetic as to play tennis two or three times a week before breakfast, a practice which our less hardy successors have abandoned. We drove to office and out to dinner in dogcarts. Not in those days did the Junior Secretary or his wife regard a brougham as indispensable. Among the pleasantest meetings were hunt finishes, hospitable gatherings where, at the end of the run, riders and their friends were rewarded with pegs and encouraged to dance. Jests and laughter filled the air. The cheerful subaltern leant over the veranda, encouraging a reluctant rider at the last show-jump: “Give him his head, sir; can’t you see the pony wants to jump?” Poor Cockeram; one of the first to fall in the guerilla warfare in Upper Burma. The lotteries on the races were still fairly select meetings of friends and acquaintances. In 1885 I attended them for the last time, and bandied quips with a famous special correspondent. In reply to his remark that we were making history, I made the obvious and unluckily too true reply that we left that to him. I am still somewhat surprised that he, an Irishman, should have thought it necessary gravely to explain the origin and meaning of his observation.

The work in the Secretariat was hard enough, but not so overwhelming as in later times. There was a staff of good old-fashioned clerks, most of whom had been in the office many years, whose experience compensated the somewhat primitive methods inherited from days when Sir Arthur Phayre himself went daily to the Secretariat in Godwin Road. The office was quite efficient, bearing the impress of three excellent Secretaries, Major Street, Mr. Burgess, and Mr. Symes, each of the finest quality in his own way. Mr. Crosthwaite, whose name is associated with Burma more intensely than that of anyone save Sir Arthur Phayre, acted as Chief Commissioner for a year in 1883-84, during Mr. Bernard’s absence on leave.

About this time India was violently agitated by the Ilbert Bill. In all parts of India the bulk of the magisterial work is done by native officers. Living in places more or less remote were many Europeans, planters and others, whom it was thought undesirable to subject to the jurisdiction of Indians. The law therefore ordained that only magistrates themselves Europeans and of proved experience should exercise powers in criminal cases over persons classed as European British subjects. This was, I venture to say, a wise and necessary provision. By the Ilbert Bill it was proposed to abolish this distinction and to place Europeans and natives on the same footing in respect of criminal procedure. It was a doctrinaire proposal of the worst kind, subversive of the prestige of the ruling race, and quite uncalled for by the circumstances and exigencies of the time. One thing only can be said in its favour. It was offered as a voluntary boon, not as a concession to seditious clamour and agitation. By all classes of Europeans the proposal was vehemently opposed. In many parts, especially in Bengal, passionate excitement was stirred up. The Viceroy, believed to have been the only begetter of the Bill, seated on the Olympian heights of Simla, failed to realize the extent and force of the opposition to his project. Not till he came down to Calcutta did he understand the situation. In the capital there was enough visible ferment to indicate the seething passions beneath. Wild stories are told of the intentions of the European community, had the Bill been pressed. If Lord Ripon had not come to Calcutta, he would have continued in ignorance, surrounded only by officials, unblest by the saving grace of contact with living public opinion. In Burma alone among the Provinces of India, the subject failed to kindle a spark of vital interest. There were few Europeans scattered through the country likely to be affected by the proposed change in the law. And, for reasons which it would not be difficult to analyze, Europeans in Burma have seldom been very clamorous in expression. By some of the more ardent spirits, however, it was felt that Rangoon ought not to be left entirely out of the movement. After much delay, a meeting to demonstrate and protest against the Bill was convened at Mr. Fowle’s new Town Hall for one fine Saturday afternoon. On the morning of the appointed day, the Rangoon Gazette published in advance an account of the meeting, with the names of the speakers very thinly disguised, and with parodies of the speeches they were expected to deliver. The plot was hatched in the Secretariat. Though I was pars exigua, the account was mainly written by Mr. Bayne. The secret was never disclosed, and the incident has no doubt long ago been forgotten. At the time our jeu d’esprit had a succÈs fou. This we knew by the wealth of abuse heaped on our unknown heads by correspondents of the rival newspaper, the Rangoon Times. Further ill-luck attended the meeting. Just before it opened, news came that a compromise had been effected, and that substantial modifications were to be made in the Bill. The meeting was held, and speeches, much as we had foretold, were delivered, but as the measure was already dead the demonstration fell rather flat.

For two or three months in 1884 I acted as Revenue Secretary and Director of Agriculture. In that capacity I signed and issued the first of the annual forecasts of the exportable surplus of the rice-crop. Candour compels me to confess that the signature was all that I contributed to this or any later forecast. For the first Mr. Bernard was entirely responsible. With some misgiving he raised the figure to 975,000 tons. These forecasts have been issued year by year ever since, and on the average have been so close to the actuals as to evoke the expressed admiration of the mercantile community. The latest forecast predicted a surplus of over 2,600,000 tons, a remarkable increase in less than thirty years.

By another stroke of luck I acted as Secretary for three months early in 1885 in place of Mr. Symes on privilege leave. Later in the year, owing to Mr. Burgess’s return for a short time to the Secretariat, I had my last experience of subdivisional work. My?anaung, just above the Delta, but not in the dry tract, was one of the most charming subdivisions. The Deputy-Commissioner, Mr. A. M. B. Irwin,[69] was most able and genial, an admirable chief whose knowledge of district work has never been surpassed. These months were pleasant and restful after the somewhat strenuous life of the Secretariat. The duties were light, the house comfortable, the riding good. Now a railway runs through the subdivision, but till recently all travelling was by unmetalled roads, jungle paths, and along the embankment which restrained the river. Two township officers, one at Kanaung, one at Kyangin, shared the ordinary work.

Among the reforms introduced by Mr. Bernard was the selection of a certain proportion of My?o-Ôks by competitive examination. My?o-Ôks, it will be remembered, are officers, generally natives of the Province, who have charge of townships. Previously they had been appointed by Government solely on the recommendation of Commissioners and other high officers. Mr. Bernard devised a system combining nomination and competition. But a great many direct appointments were still made. The system is still in force except that recently I threw the competitive examination open to all young men of good health and character. On the whole the plan has worked well. A great many of the My?o-Ôks appointed after examination have proved themselves very valuable officers. I agree that many of our best My?o-Ôks and Extra Assistant Commissioners have been men of character and integrity, well educated in their own language, but hardly likely to secure appointments by open competition. No one appreciates these men more highly than I do. But the scheme of administration becomes yearly more complex. And in an increasing number of offices a good knowledge of English is essential. By the competitive system, if a high standard is maintained, some of the best among the educated youth are attracted to Government service, while the reservation of a number of posts for direct appointment keeps open the door for those who are distinguished by birth and character rather than by academic aptitude. The objection that under the open competitive system we have no guarantee of candidates’ social standing has very little weight in Burma. It is a country where fraternity and equality are realities, where class distinctions are of little value. One of my My?o-Ôks was of the old school. Formerly a pleader, he had earned his appointment by being instrumental in the capture of the Myingun Prince.[70] The other was a competitioner, and not perhaps a good example of my thesis. A man of good education who had been a schoolmaster, he seems to have missed his vocation by becoming a Judge and magistrate. His wife, a clever bustling woman, was thought to supply some of her husband’s deficiencies. It was said, probably untruly, that on occasion she would come into Court and stir up the peons[71] and punka-pullers. The My?o-Ôk’s house was a pleasant place to visit. He had two charming little daughters of tender years, who, in a most engaging way, used to stand up and recite to visitors “Lord Ullin’s Daughter,” and other English verses. My friend afterwards resumed his original profession, which no doubt suited him better. His son is an officer of great ability and distinction.

Recalling my quiet life at My?anaung, I am reminded of some instances of Burmese superstition. Some fishermen of that place before starting work made the customary offerings to nats. One of them placed his offering of rice in a dish from which the dogs were fed. His companions exclaimed at this impious act and warned him of the consequences. That day, when they were all in their boats, a monstrous crocodile appeared. “See,” said the fishermen, “the result of your wickedness.” The offender took no heed of the warning, but next day repeated his insult to the nats. So he filled the cup of his iniquity. That morning, in the midst of the fishing, the crocodile again appeared. This time the contemner of nats was knocked out of his boat and perished in the waters.

Burmans are firm believers in ghosts, know well the danger of passing graveyards after dark, and are convinced of the existence of good and evil spirits. I remember one curious case in which superstitious terror had a lamentable issue. In the middle of the rains a man was cutting grass in a field. The rain pattered noisily on his kamauk.[72] Suddenly he heard close behind him what sounded like an unearthly voice. In a panic he turned hastily and made a cut with his sickle-shaped knife, unhappily with fatal effect. The speaker was a harmless villager, whose voice, by evil chance, was singularly gruff. In a moment, recognizing the catastrophe, the grass-cutter gave his best attention to the victim of his fear, but in vain. The police quaintly reported that the man had cut in the direction of the sound, “thinking it was a devil, but admitted that he was mistaken.” I am glad to say that we were not so pedantic as to bring the grass-cutter to trial for his misadventure which he sincerely regretted.